


A Shortcut To Redemption

by Overly_Caffeinated



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 11, Angel True Forms (Supernatural), Angels are genderless wavelenghts, Archangel Sam Winchester, But he isn't good at it, Everyone is redeemed, God | Chuck Shurley Tries, God's A+ Parenting, Hurt Sam Winchester, Light Feminization, Lucifer Redemption, Mind Meld, Moral Ambiguity, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 126,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overly_Caffeinated/pseuds/Overly_Caffeinated
Summary: After the finale of his and Amara's reconciliation, Chuck returns to the bunker, intent on restoring Lucifer to the archangel he used to be. Except his plans aren't what the Winchesters would want them to be, and they're left in the aftermath, trying to pick up the pieces of their old life.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer & Sam Winchester
Comments: 101
Kudos: 61





	1. Come To Me, All You Who Are Weary And Burdened

_Sensations are rushing past his mind, too fast for him to grasp at any of them. Or perhaps his mind is the slow one, muddy, wading through his thoughts and dragging viscously like taffy he can't recall the taste of._

_The smell of gunpowder and car oil clogs his sinuses before it's ripped away and scrubbed clean by fire and sulphur. He can feel smooth pages beneath his fingers, distracting him from the pain stabbing across his back, arching between his shoulder blades and up into broken bones grinding against each other._

_A sudden lurch forces a shriek from his throat, and a feeling of free falling overtakes him. His stomach twists as he falls; his panic rises and fear clouds his mind even further - he's going to land and shatter like glass on the cold concrete, he can remember the way the pain would explode through him-_

_He's floating again. A gentle, low voice calls to him, the sound like balm against the rushing, sharp wind. It's familiar, speaking of safety and protection, so he grabs at the memories, protesting when they slip like water through his fingers._

_He doesn't want to go back to the freezing cold, to the feelings of hopelessness and betrayal; and so much rage, toxic in its intensity, twisting his insides and setting his lungs on fire. He scrambles away from it: primal fear gripping him in the face of so much hate, so much pain. It reaches for him, clings to his Light like slimy ropes and settles down into his veins and the backs of his eyes. He tries to untangle himself from it, jerking and screaming and thinking about the nice voice he heard before._

_He breaks free in a burst of pure, beautiful white, soaring as far away from the dark as he can. He sings with his freedom, and his song reverberates through the world to shake its foundations._

_He stills. The smell of ash becomes less intense and the cold less encompassing. Hope blooms in his chest and he spins in place, looking for the warmth - he can't see it._  
_Desperation grips him and he focuses, trying to remember the feeling of it, calling back the sounds and smells of it by force the way he would drag a monster out of the dark with a length of rope while it shrieked and clawed._

_It works, perhaps too well. The sound of a roaring car is deafening, wind whistles past his ears, his eyes tearing up and blinking furiously. It mixes with the clangs and clashes of blades, gunshots echoing and making his teeth rattle. Adrenaline courses through his veins, speeding up his heartbeat and making his limbs shaky._

_It's too fast, too loud, too much. He curls into himself, shielding his head from the onslaught, wanting it to stop for just a moment. He wants to get away from wherever he is, somewhere that isn't the lonely cold place and isn't here either, where he can have peace._  
_He's pulling up, weightless, muddy static replacing the noise, faraway voices slicing into his ears with how they rasp and whisper, panicked and worried. His fingers twitch._

_Who's speaking? He wants to shake free of the sludge weighing him down again, a constant pressure on his chest and limbs that pushes him back under._

_He raises his head warily and a face sharpens into focus in front of him. It's the first face he has seen until now, pale skin with high cheekbones standing out under the harsh light. It's sickeningly familiar, like a sight that he has seen every day, in the tiny mirrors of other people's eyes._

_His mouth opens and he speaks, involuntarily; his words are unintelligible and muffled, like there's a barrier between his ears and his voice._  
_Emotions he doesn't understand flit past his mind again: fear and hopelessness, meshed together with sick satisfaction._

_He backs away as soon as his legs listen to him, confused and disgusted; turns to run, but stumbles through the darkness, downwards into the ice again. So much fear, destroying the stale sparks of triumph. Pain erupts in his stomach and spreads out from the blade he plunged into his own flesh. Or was it his own? It must have been._  
_Broken pleadings spill from his mouth, but they don't stop the flood of hate and defeat slicing at his skin, pulling apart tissue and soaking his hair in blood._

_It feels like a small eternity before he hears the voice again. His eyes snap open - when did they grow back? - and light fills the new space he's found himself in. He's clinging tightly to the one the voice belonged to, soaking up the warmth. There's a simple perfection in this feeling, loyalty and love he hasn't felt for anyone else in a very long time._

_He grips the other tighter, wrapping his arms around him and burrowing his head in the crook of his neck. The smell of home fills his nose and he almost sobs in relief._

_They stay like that, slowly calming down and trying to forget the pain left behind in the cold dark space. Light fills his periphery; it's whiteness, fogging up his vision and swallowing him whole. The inevitability of it pulls on his limbs, but he stubbornly ignores it, choosing to hold on to the heat for as long as he can._

_His grip on the other one, his_ brother _, starts slipping and he grabs at him, one last futile attempt before he's dragged into the nothingness._

  
* * *

It's cold, here. 

The air feels slightly stale, dust tickling his nostrils as if this is an old place that hasn't been lived in in a while. The ground isn't hard though, something soft is supporting him where he lays on his side. His clothes are abrasive against his skin, and his heartbeat is a distant drum in his ears, speeding up slightly as if warning him of impending panic.

His heavy breathing is accompanied by the clangs of metal and water dripping inside the walls. His eyes feel crusted over, with grit or tears he can't tell. He can't tell much of anything; his mind is still too slow to form sentences, too slow to remember, so all that comes out is a low whine that sounds wrong even to his own ears.

He tries to move, and his hand fists rough fabric. Someone moves towards him and touches the surface he lies on. It doesn't dip, but the person leans closer. They're breathing shakily, their heartbeat erratic, the faint smell of fear in the air, along with sweat-soaked clothes and _gunpowder_.

His joints crack as his body jerks upwards like a puppet pulled on strings, uncoordinated. It doesn't feel like he's a part of it, the sensations he feels are all detached and separated as if he's merely a passenger - but he only hears himself, nobody else's thoughts. He doesn't dwell on it, the person is more important.

His eyes snap open, spilling in a world of color and light, intense and painfully detailed. For a tiny moment, he's captivated by the tiny motes of dust floating in the air, the golden glow making them visible, before he even registers the two faces by his side. He doesn't remember the second person being there.

His eyes dart between them, unsure who he's supposed to look at first. They both seem incredibly important, like a memory he can't grasp whispering of trust and family, but he can't help but feel unease, reluctance at the idea of paying attention to one of them while letting the other one out of his sight.

It's a lot to deal with for his addled brain, the conflicting feelings only confusing him further, so he briefly turns his attention to the room behind them. It's vaguely familiar, with drab walls and simple decor. His eyes run over the space before looking down at the bed he's sitting on and eventually stopping on his legs.

He decides that the long limbs, clad in denim, do not belong to him. They don't look alien at all, he just doesn't feel as if they're _his_. The toes wiggle, and he can feel the nerves shooting signals through the body's system.

He lets go of the sheet he was clutching in his hand and looks at it, feeling the earlier panic rise again, twisting his expression without his consent into something grotesquely wide-eyed. His hands are the first sight that doesn't feel right at all, a sight that doesn't belong among the previous things he's seen.

He stares at the pale, smooth skin, free of scars and calluses he somehow knows should be there. They look young, unblemished. They don't fit.

A lock of chestnut hair falls on his face to obscure a part of his vision, so he raises a hand to brush it back. His hair is a tangled mess, spilling down his neck and curling slightly at the shoulders. It's a slight comfort, the assumption that his hair should be long. He wasn't expecting short hair-

“Sam?” 

He flinches and snaps his head towards the man on his right, noting his expression for the first time. Green eyes opened so far he could see the bloodshot sclera all around the iris, open in fear and brows scrunched in worry.   
He knows with all his Light he's seen this man before, the conviction so strong it's almost painful, but his mind is still moving sluggishly, the memories evading him. He stares hard at the contours of his face, the short, spiky hair, trying to get a hold of something, anything.

The person on his left moves closer as well. They look like a man, but some automatic response rejects the idea before he can properly dub them as a 'he'. Before him, the sight of them unravels, the blue-eyed shell they wear filled with colourful light, bubbling and spinning in murky tones, infinitely familiar.

They move closer, which confuses him more than it causes another bout of panic. Shouldn't they be backing away? But that's not right either, they are his _friend_ -

“Sam, do you... know what happened?” They ask in a tentative, gravelly voice, tripping over that word, Sam, as if they aren't quite sure it's the correct one.

He blinks, looking down at his hands. Of course there's a reason they're like that, that they don't belong. He casts back with his thoughts, trying to recall something, and his mind slips over the jagged edges of recent memories.  
He's stubborn though, a trait he thinks has always been there, so he wraps them up and pulls them closer, insisting to see what they have to show him.

His mind erupts.

Snippets of memories and voices explode behind his eyes, ones that feel recent pulling up random events from long ago, all of them mixing into a deafening cacophony.

He sees a calloused hand extending towards him, eyes full of love he hadn't received in what felt like eons, offering him a chance. A desire to please him makes his Light gleam wildly, a want to be someone worth that love, that apology; even a glance of almost forgotten kindness out of those blue eyes soothing the dark, aching pit in his chest and his broken, scarred self.

Redemption.

What even is that word? It held so much meaning he didn't understand. What did it entail? He didn't care all that much at the time. All that mattered was that beautiful word. Son. Somebody's child, someone deserving, someone he wanted to be again because it is all he has ever wanted.

He sees himself; with long legs, dressed in jeans, and hands that fit, standing in a library. He watches a man lift his hand to place it on the chest of a boy whose eyes he stared out of. His vision blacked out, but he was still there, still standing rooted in place, heart beating and hair gluing to his neck.

He can taste beer and ash on his tongue and feel phantom pain ghosting over his limbs from a time he buried. He can feel sweat clinging to his skin like drying blood and bile rise at the back of his throat.

The memories are too much, overwhelming in their intensity. He looks at rooms from more than one perspective, looks at himself from the outside and it all feels _wrong_.

There's something terrible and great pressing at him somewhere in the back of his mind, something sorrowful and screeching and furious, that has been sitting alone in the dark for so long it's lost everything that made it shine with brightness until it's hard to tell where the nothing begins and they end.

He's terrified. 

He wanted to understand, before, but now he just wants to look away and forget. He doesn't understand why. What did he do? Why are they looking at him like they're afraid, staring at him by the bed and waiting? It's too much.  
  
Nausea spreads through his body, making his panic worse. His reactions shouldn't be this violent, but he can't help screwing his eyes shut at the rushing images and scrambling away from them. 

His back presses against a wall, but he still feels unsteady, so he grips the sheets to get some semblance of balance. The air in the room seems thicker as it refuses to flow down his closing throat, making breathing into a laborious task.

He's drowning; in the memories, the voices, the senses-

Someone firmly grips his shoulders, steadying him. He looks up at the man, so much closer now than before; every freckle on his face stands out, and if he wanted, he could count the hazel flecks mixed into the green of his eyes.

“Sam, hey, calm down.” His voice is gentle, but grounding.  
“Listen Sammy, you're alright. Calm down for me. Can you do that?” 

_Sammy_. The feeling of familiarity hits him again, and glimpses of memories, similar to this one trickle past his mind. He nods at the directions and forces himself to breathe slower, inhaling through his nose and shakily letting the air out. The man, his brother, he realises again, smiles at him. “That's great. You're doing good,” His brother says. He's so close to something, something very important and he closes his eyes while he grabs frantically at the memories. _There_.

“Dean,” he breathes. 

He suddenly remembers the feeling of safety, of warmth melting away the cold. He felt it not long ago, the memories flowing past his eyes like watching a movie, wrapped in blankets on a ratty couch in a motel room. He snaps forward, catching the way Dean's eyes widen in panic, but his hands lift and reach around his back to embrace him, to press himself against his chest.

He feels a relieved smile stretch across his face when Dean tentatively hugs back.

But then something ugly and dark slithers into the good memories. 

The relaxed smile Dean wears in most of the moments he remembers morphs into a snarl, full of hatred. His hand doesn't hold a bottle of bear, but a gun he points at his head. His lips don't stretch gently around the soft words, ' _Sammy_ ' and _'little brother_ '. No, they spit something far more threatening, far more aggressive.

Because he's someone Dean hates.

His insides twist painfully. The thought is horrible and terrifying; it stabs somewhere beyond the physical pain and carves into something fragile and impossibly strong he's been cradling close his entire life.

His raw new eyes water and his throat burns. Dean starts pulling away and he could swear he feels his lungs collapsing.

Everything is irrational. He grips the striped flannel his brother wears and pulls him close again, trying to keep him there as long as he can, get as much of the feeling before it perishes. He can't control his facial expressions, the noises he makes, his jerky movements. If Dean looked at him, he'd realize he hates him, even if he clearly can't recognize him now; and he feels like his hateful glare would drill into him, that his skin would sizzle at Dean's scathing words.

Dean jerks in surprise, but he doesn't push him off. He mutters that name again and he glances over his shoulder at the other person. He doesn't know what sort of look they share, he doesn't particularly want to. He exhales into his brother's neck and watches as his short hair stands on end. 

His eyes sting like this is the first time they've been filled with tears that threaten to spill over. 

There's so much he feels, separate from the shirt sliding over his muscles or Dean's hair tickling his face. He doesn't understand the reason for the simmering rage, present in the back of his mind - he's too occupied by shame, desperation and intense puzzlement. His confusion breeds blind panic only Dean is keeping back right now.

He doesn't understand anything. 

The tension in Dean's shoulders rises, and he fears that it's revulsion that prompts him to push him back, albeit gently. Carefully.

He doesn't look up to check what his expression is like. His head drops down and his back bends to hunch forward, so that he isn't taller than Dean anymore. He blinks to clear his swimming sight, and tears drop from his eyes to land on the faded fabric of his jeans and loudly splatter on the bedspread.

He's hopeless, caught in a situation he can't possibly tackle, not when he's this overwhelmed. He doesn't know what to do, who he is. A choked off sob tears itself from his throat before he starts openly crying.

It's a blow to his pride, others seeing him so broken, but he can't care right now. This is too much to deal with.

Dean hesitantly touches his arm. “Sam? Can you tell us what's wrong?” Dean's voice is just as panic-ridden and directionless as his would probably be.

_Yes. Everything is wrong_.

Dean's swallow is audible, but he still doesn't look up, hiding behind curtains of brown locks and unraveling.

“Can you talk?”

It was them who spoke now, moving closer from where they were before, long clothing brushing the wooden frame of his bed. Some part of his mind recognizes it as a trench coat.  
He doesn't shake his head. It would be a lie - he has said something before, he knows he could speak if he tried. But he doesn't want to hear what his voice sounds like. Even the breathed name before had sounded horribly out of place, the pitch of it wrong.

Dean squeezes his arm. “Sam.”

_Why do you call me that?_

His breath hitches in a humiliating way and he clenches his jaws to stop. Dean's face is twisted in worry when he finally looks up. He doesn't feel like he deserves that worry, and that feeling doesn't feel like it's only rooted in the evil he's aware of but can't remember, like it's always been there. He looks away towards the other person. The concern on their face is less prominent, as wariness seems to be the main emotion they show, brows lowered over their striking blue eyes. They both hold expectation, as if he's the one who will explain and clarify things.

He can't. He really can't.

Their stares feel like they're peeling away his layers, leaving him raw and exposed. He shrinks under the scrutiny. It doesn't help that they look at him as if he's a wild animal about to claw at them.   
His shame and his fear are open to them like words of a book, and he wants to bundle them up and understand, but his memories are shredded, disgusting things whispering of bloodshed and guilt. 

He doesn't look at their eyes anymore. His gaze rakes over the room, looking for an escape from this nightmare, and fixates on the open door, a hallway visible beyond it. It's dark, and far more unfamiliar than where he is now, but at least there are no questioning, staring eyes.

His body jolts when he tries to bolt off the bed and towards the door, and he lands on the floor in a tangle of limbs and loose clothes. He can hear Dean's surprised yell, and they both jump away from him. Despite the embarrassment of it, it works in his favor, giving him a moment to scramble to his legs and dart through the door before they can chase after him.

His legs feel like someone shattered and then reassembled them, as does his torso and arms. He feels as if they're lagging behind his commands, still somewhat alienated from his mind, and he bumps into the walls when his balance makes the hallway spin.

There's a yell behind him and he feels Dean running after him. He doesn't want to face him again, so he sprints towards an open door and throws himself through it, slamming the door behind himself and stumbling over the dark bathroom tiles.

Dean skids to a stop before it, but he doesn't barge in.

He sinks down on the floor and pulls his knees up. It's dark, empty, and rather cold. He doesn't like it, but at least he's alone. He has the privacy to break without condemnation, and there's no need to address the past if he's the only one looking for it.

He pushes the memories away for now. He can figure it all out later.

They're in front of the door, and their stares drill invisible holes into the wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year ago, this was a half finished 50k fic I never posted. I've recently come back to it and decided to completely rewrite it, since I didn't like the angsty, chronologically correct version that lacked proper style, but this is an idea I've always wanted to read somewhere. Anyway, I hope this holds your interest ^^


	2. And I Will Give You Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set a day before the events of chapter 1!

Dean loiters in the hallway like a ghost, leaning on the wall. His lungs ache and his throat is sore and scratchy, so he lifts a bottle of beer and takes a swig of the cool liquid, focusing on the feeling of it running over his tongue.

He knows Castiel is inside the room he can't bring himself to enter yet, so he pretends to linger in the hall even though he'd rather be in a demon fight than have to face what's in it.

There's no more beer when he wants to take another swallow, so he takes the chance to get away and walks down the hall towards the bunker's kitchen and get himself another. His steps are slow and heavy, and they echo over the expansive underground structure. They always have, but this is the first time they sound ominous.

*

_Short fingernails tap impatiently over the library's tabletop, even though the voice is deceptively calm and cheery. Dean wonders if Chuck knows how condescending it makes him look._

_“-But just talking it out once... doesn't fix everything. I'm leaving with Amara, and I doubt he'd take it well.”_

_Chuck's tone suggests he knows exactly how badly Lucifer would take another abandonment. Dean doesn't want to imagine it, and it baffles him still, how obviously the devil yearns for his father's love and approval while spouting blasphemy as often as opportunity allows it._

_Lucifer's unexpected and bizarre obedience after receiving his apology is still fresh in his mind, his... almost nice demeanor when his dad finally told him what he wanted to hear. Chuck doesn't seem to talk about him with the same kindness now that Lucifer isn't here and they're discussing his potential temper tantrum, though._

_Chuck leans back slightly and clasps his hands together. “So!” He starts, his voice raising slightly in volume and pitch. “I had some ideas on how to deal with him, and I came up with the one I think is best.”_

*

Dean walks into the kitchen, untouched by events of the day. He glances at a clock, seeing it's already evening. It's easy to forget the time here in these windowless rooms, and exhaustion suddenly catches up to him. 

Earlier in the day, he watched two absolute beings of creation make up and disappear into smoke, saving the universe. People won't ever even know how close they came to the end again. The world doesn't feel saved to Dean, though. No, his entire world just collapsed on itself, just like his bones when he slumps into a kitchen chair without even making it to the fridge for that stupid bottle of beer. 

It all feels so far away now, utterly unimportant. 

Dean drops his head into his hands and sits there.

*

_“I want to give my son a... redemption arc, if you will.” Chuck sits up straighter now, and an excited glint appears in his eyes, his lips stretching into a smile as he launches into an explanation that Dean hopes will contribute to the point, because he really just wants to know what the Almighty plans to do with the devil._

_“Now, the taint the Mark left on him is a very real problem. It's not there like a stain I can just remove,” Chuck says, “The darkness twisted his core personality, not just his grace. I can't 'fix' him, unless I want to remake him into someone else entirely.”_

_Again Dean is reminded of the horrible time he used to have the Mark. He mulled it over when Lucifer ranted about his own experience with it, and it still makes him queasy, having something in common with that asshole. It's comforting to know it wasn't his fault entirely - if an immortal archangel couldn't fight it, how could he ever stand a chance? Dean was never much of a person to overthink the 'what ifs' of life, but this hit too close to home._  
_If Sam and Cas hadn't succeeded in time, would Dean have ended up with permanent taint, forever twisted into a monster? With a corrupted personality, just like the fallen archangel bitching in their bunker?_

_Chuck circles his hands and sighs into the air. “He lacks the good traits he used to have. Amara's darkness dimmed his conscience and really amped up his bad side.”_

_Sam watches him intently, just like every time Lucifer is mentioned, absorbing information in case there's a chance they'll have to spend time in the same thousand mile radius. Cas has been doing it as well. Dean doesn't judge them for it at all._  
_They would have had to deal with the archangel eventually though, when they caught their breath after Amara and Chuck reconciled. But they barely had time to hug and open a beer before the Almighty popped into the bunker._

_“I want him to be as close to the angel he used to be as possible,” Chuck smiles, “And this is the fastest way to achieve it.”_

_Dean decides this is a good point in his monologue to interrupt and ask a question. “Ok, why are you explaining this to us? We don't even know where Lucifer is since Amara ripped him out of Cas.”_

_The mentioned angel cringes at the reminder, and Dean sends him an apologetic glance. Chuck smiles in an indulgent, somewhat sheepish way. “Well, because I need your help with this.”_

_Judging by the confusion blooming over Sam's and Castiel's faces, Dean isn't the only one baffled by this. Chuck doesn't make any attempts to explain that yet; instead, he turns his uncanny eyes right into Sam, clearly not bothered by how it makes the hunter shift in discomfort._

_“Actually, I need your help in particular, Sam.”_

*

Dean wants to stand up and rage, but he's already past that stage now. 

He spent hours yelling prayers at Chuck, sobbing at times and throwing insults so blasphemous it's a miracle he didn't smite him on the spot. His knuckles are bruised, and some of his blood is out drying on the bark of the forest's trees. 

He raged and roared until his screaming devolved into broken sobs and he dragged himself inside. Castiel had shut down, his anger and betrayal simmering behind his eyes and lighting them up with grace. He was used to putting away his emotions like they were just objects on a shelf, and Dean was sometimes jealous of that angelic ability.

Now, Dean feels like a hollowed out corpse.

He eventually stands up and gets that beer, only to drain half of it at once and grabbing another. He wishes they had something stronger, but getting wasted now wasn't just stupid, it might be dangerous as well. Dean's self preservation instincts are evaporating under the scorching hopelessness.

*

_Sam's eyes go wide._

_The way Chuck phrased it, it seemed like he was already dead set on going through with whatever he planned. If something was 'best' in his opinion, Sam's role in it wasn't a choice._

_“I, uh... my help with what?” He stumbles over his words, nervousness and caution making his eyes dart over Chuck's expression, clearly having come to the same conclusion._

_Chuck smiles, and this time it's clearly condescending. “You just have to be here,” He says lightly - cryptically - before standing abruptly up and taking a few steps away, turning away from the trio who had jumped up after him._

_“Lucifer has just taken a vessel, so this should be pretty easy...” Chuck snaps his fingers._

*

Dean stands up and walks back towards the spare bedroom Castiel chose. A heaviness sets in his limbs that's been appearing whenever he goes without rest too long, especially in the last years. All the stress and heartbreak they keep experiencing has been accumulating like tar on a smoker's lungs, and he feels more tired every time he gets up to fight his way through life - and this is the kind of crap he doesn't know how to _begin_ to get out of.

Castiel hears him getting closer, and steps outside to look at Dean with concerned, blue eyes. There are tired lines around them, making the angel's vessel look older. Dean thinks again how they all deserved a break after the Amara fiasco. They definitely won't get that now.

“Any change?” Dean asks quietly, his voice rough. Castiel shakes his head.

With that answer, Dean considers waiting outside or walking in. He doesn't need to do the latter; Cas just told him nothing's changed. He won't see anything new. Well, not more than four-hour-old new anyway. He isn't a coward though, so he steels himself and marches into the room as quietly as he can, grabs a chair from the table and spins it around so he can sit while looking at the bed.

His brother's body is gently laid on the sheets where Castiel put him. He hadn't trashed or flinched at all; he was still as a statue other than the breathing that shallowed and sped up at random intervals, making Dean stare intently.

Castiel had said he could tell when he was about to wake up, and Dean wonders what exactly the angel sees when he looks at him. All he can see is the dried tear tracks on a face he hasn't seen in more than a decade, unfamiliar and strange. He has no idea what he looks like beneath it.

*

_“What do you think you're doing?!”_

_Lucifer's voice is comically high in the body of a teenage boy, and his petulant demeanor matches his lanky vessel to a disturbing degree. His eyes flash red as he stabs them into his father who simply smiles at him in a vaguely apologetic manner._

_He twists on the ground he was snapped to and springs to his legs, tense. Dean worries he'll lash out at them, but Chuck puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Lucifer eyes the hand like it's something positively disgusting, but he makes no move to remove it or pull away, something he wouldn't have allowed a few days earlier._

_“Giving you a chance at redemption.” Chuck answers him as if the screamed accusation was a calm question in an ongoing debate. Lucifer's expression morphs from sourness into incredulity when he hears it, and Dean has to agree that redemption for someone like him seems like an impossible and frankly ridiculous idea._

_“What.” Lucifer says flatly, his surprise not impeding his ability to formulate spiteful replies. He scowls at the trio of humans and an angel, unwelcome intruders in a conversation that might get very personal. Chuck answers him with patience, “Just what I said. I'd like you to be who you once were, son. If you'd accept, I'm offering you that.”_

_Lucifer straightens - it doesn't have much effect since he's still at least a head shorter than everyone else in the room - and his expression hardens. “There's no fixing what's done. I'm not your loyal soldier, Dad.”_

_Chuck shakes his head. “That's not what I want, or expect from you.”_

_The fallen angel blinks up at his Father, the picture of a lost child just wanting reassurance. Chuck still wears the same expression of patient fondness, and Lucifer stares at it, his eyes glinting with something akin to longing._

_Then he nods slightly, giving his dad permission; to do whatever, to screw up their lives, to place his hand on Sam's chest like he was the one giving the okay, like this in any way equals redemption._

_He nods, and Dean will hate him for it forever._

*

Dean jolts awake, his neck cramping from where he leaned awkwardly against the wall for... probably hours, judging by the pain.

He looks at the bed in alarm, but sees the exact same thing he did before he nodded off. His-Their brother is still crumpled on the bed, with closed eyes and tangled dark hair fanned out on the pillow.

Castiel enters when he hears him, and Dean looks at him with accusing eyes. “You needed to rest,” The angel tells him, “I would have woken you if he was about to stir.”

Dean just nods, shaking off the drowsiness and staring at the bed. Castiel is silent as well, leaning on the wall with a helpless expression.

“Why him, Cas?” Dean suddenly asks, his tone defeated. Why did Sam, the kindest person Dean knew, who always tried so hard to be good, deserve this? He doesn't expect the seraph to answer, but he's glad for his gravelly voice filling the oppressive silence.

“I doubt Chuck could have done this with anyone else,” Castiel says slowly, sharing conclusions he must have come to a while ago, but Dean wasn't in the right state of mind to listen to anything. “Sam's body is the only one that can hold Lucifer's grace for any long period of time, and his soul is... compatible with it. And...” Castiel's voice broke. “He likely needed a person like Sam to do it.”

Dean watches with wet eyes as Castiel grips the edges of his trench coat in his hands and wrings it. “Sam is everything my brother no longer is. He is modest, empathetic, generous... he has so many good qualities.”

Dean's jaw clenches. It all comes down to them being vessels; more than just meat suits for violent archangels with daddy issues, but their reflections, of who they were supposed to be, or were a long time ago. And Sam had the misfortune of getting the devil, of all angels. Chuck's words make a disturbing, horrible amount of sense, and Dean hates that he's sober enough to put two and two together.

He decides doing what he usually does and looping back to denial and anger is better than asking questions he doesn't really know the answer to. “Can't you just pull them apart?” He rasps, his tone cutting the air. Castiel's expression falls even further.

“Dean, I told you.” He sighs. Dean remembers when Castiel first told him this, how horrified and shocked he looked. Now he just seems exhausted. “There's only one mind. I can't tear it apart even if I could separate the soul from the grace now that it's pervading it.”

Dean chews his lips, feeling the metallic taste of blood spill over his tongue. He knows this. He doesn't accept it.

“What else can you tell?” He asks instead. Castiel glances at the bed. “Not much. All I have are guesses.”

“Well, I want to hear them.” Dean shoots back, some of his desperation leaking into the words. Castiel doesn't glare at his tone, or does anything to indicate Dean should stop being stubborn.

“I don't know. We won't know what he's like until he wakes up. I can see his grace right now, so I can tell what his emotional state is. That's all.” Dean stares at him until Castiel continues. “It's... disoriented. In shock, but there's a lot of different emotions, as if he's dreaming. It's... intense.”

Dean nods and goes silent while he mulls over the information. He has half a mind to go outside for another screaming session, but he knows, logically, that it would do nothing but maybe traumatize the birds. He's never felt more helpless, sitting here and waiting for Sam to wake up, for Lucifer to open his eyes, because there's nothing he can do. 

They've been through so much. They've saved each other from death numerous times, given up everything and everyone up for each other, but Sam is further than the afterlife now and Dean can't reach him.

“I guess we wait then.” Dean says, quietly enough for it to be a whisper. Castiel doesn't answer, just walks over and leans on the wooden table behind Dean, since the room only has one chair. It's a spare bedroom, one of the many the bunker has, and a fine layer of dust covers every surface but the ones they wiped. Not that they remembered to clean.

Dean's mind echoes with Sam Winchester's scream and the blinding light of Lucifer's grace, pouring out of the boy Chuck snapped somewhere else afterwards. He didn't even care about him at the time, distracted by Sam's soul, bared to the world before it was swallowed by the celestial lightshow. He clenches his teeth as he remembers Sam's head thumping to the floor as his limbs went lax.

They settle into a grim silence and wait for their brother to wake up.


	3. You Blunder, When You Don't See The Way

He doesn't know what to say to Dean.

Castiel did, of course, try and find words of comfort, searching for the thing that would calm the tumultuous rippling of the hunter's soul, but it was useless. To Castiel's horror, what he said only inspired more heartbreak - so he stopped speaking.

Perhaps he should have found a way to explain what happened more clearly, or with better words, but describing to Dean the burning of archangel grace and the branching, _dissolving_ of Sam's soul as it filled the bleeding fissures isn't something he can properly talk about to a human with little knowledge of how to imagine what he's telling him. Castiel thinks that maybe Dean blames him for being useless again; and he doesn't blame the hunter, because his helplessness does make him useless, and he never blames Dean for anything.

This isn't something Castiel can fix, isn't something he could ever even approach. He's a half-fallen seraph full of weak broken grace, and he could never hope to reverse the work of his Father. 

They're hard to even look at, horrifying in the awe the sight inspires, like being privy to creation of something entirely new, a holy invention only the highest orders of the Host would ever witness. The power behind it is staggering and absolute, every visible consequence that Dean too can see is something morbidly fascinating.

They look like a tapestry made of scars and Light and Soul, grace sewn together again with veins of silver and bronze. Lucifer's grace twists and spins inside the hunter's body like it belongs there, soaking and altering the flesh without ever damaging it. The way it weaves makes Castiel think it's sure it belongs there as well, more than it has any right to, and clings to the vessel more than any other angel. 

Sam's new skin is stretched tight over the grace, and Castiel's eyes can See the vibrant blue grace beneath the translucent smooth surface as he-they lay on the old bunker bed in a spare, dust covered room.

It looks different now. Before, it was a whirlwind of nonsense; emotions and thoughts too rapid and broken for Castiel to see - and for a moment the seraph feared he might have to tell Dean the merge had driven them insane.

He chose not to, hoping that if he waited a little longer the grace would settle. To his relief (strange that he would call it that, but it's better to have an intact person than simply watch the destruction of two), it slows down over a day later.

Castiel leans over the figure and examines what he can see with shrinking lungs and a clenching heart. At least Dean isn't there to see the hopeless expression etching itself over Jimmy's face.

His friend's soul is intact - it must be, or the memories would shatter and break, and his wonderful personality would unravel - but it's stretched and distorted like capillaries across the fallen angel's grace, mixing with it into the blue-white of any celestial crammed inside a vessel. Tearing them apart would destroy Sam, and probably damage Lucifer irreparably.

Castiel tells this to Dean as gently as he can, but if he knows the hunter - and he thinks he does, after all these years - he won't give up until he tries to save his younger brother. Castiel knows he will fail, and it makes the corners of his eyes prickle.

Time slowly drags itself into late night, and after a lot of persuasion on Castiel's end, the only remaining human in the bunker retires to bed for the night, making the seraph swear he will wake him up if Sam stirs. His sleep is restless and plagued with dreams, but Castiel leaves him alone, knowing the bags under his eyes will only get worse tomorrow if he doesn't.

  
Dean makes himself a cup of bitter black coffee the next morning and simply takes it to the spare bedroom to sip it while he stares, filling it with the rich smell in the process. Castiel is at the door frame, watching as Dean comes to terms with the fact that the recent developments in their familial unit weren't just an alcohol-induced nightmare.

He keeps watch afterwards, either standing guard or being wary of the person, just like Castiel did all night.

It's almost noon when it happens for the first time, when they are going through a wild, tumultuous phase Castiel can only interpret as a bad dream. Their grace-soul rages in its confines, boiling and freezing under Sam's skin as if trying to break free out of whatever it has trapped itself in, the power seeping into the room and turning the water in Dean's glass into ice and his breath into fog.

Dean is up immediately, tense as a stone slab and completely unprepared, just like Castiel. With nothing to expect, the seraph can only watch intently as their closed eyes flit around under the eyelids and thin fingers give the slightest twitch, his own Light roiling in anxiety. 

“Is he waking up?” Dean asks sharply, staring with wide open green eyes. “Cas?”

Castiel works his mouth. “I don't know. I think so.”

And then, just as fast as it sped up, Sam's breathing slows and his form stills again, the straining of his grace lessening into the same spinning rhythm it was before and receding back under the surface. The room stops its insistence at freezing up and the warm air from the hallway mixes with it until Dean's hair isn't standing on end anymore.

Dean falls back and collapses into his chair with a conflicting mix of relief and disappointment.

Castiel frowns, raking his eyes over them-him. He saw panic, struggle and fear smashed into a volatile menagerie if the archangel were to wake up. He doesn't know if falling back asleep was a good thing or just delaying what will come. 

He's always been realistic, sometimes bordering on pessimism according to the brothers, but at least it keeps him from the disappointment high expectations bring. Lucifer would never accept what happened, and neither would Sam. Neither of them would want this under any circumstances. It's a long shot thinking that whoever is sleeping on the old bed in the corner of the small room will wake up and calmly talk about what happened. Maybe even remember what happened at all, since forcing two personalities into what they've just been pushed into can easily destroy not only memory, but sanity as well.

As he is now, Castiel is half convinced they aren't sane, if the still non-comprehending tornado of his mind is any indication. He doesn't think Dean is ready to deal with Sam's or Lucifer's broken mental state, and neither is Castiel.

The chaotic mind starts getting restless again in the evening, the same stirring that indicates an imminent rising, not simply another vivid dream. Castiel gestures sharply to Dean, the way the hunter taught him years ago, and they warily move closer - needing to be there, but worried about the lashing, errant grace that made itself known before.

Castiel thinks of what to label him, and logic commands him to use the name Lucifer. The Light of his older brother is unmistakable and obvious, stifling the familiar soul, and Castiel can't see past it.

Lucifer doesn't wake up immediately; he twitches his long limbs and lets out a quiet, incoherent sound, pale skin on his forehead furrowed in effort. His breathing gets shallower and his hands grip the sheets like he's trying to hold on, still lost in whatever his jumbled mind is projecting for him.

It doesn't seem like Lucifer will wake up abruptly, so it shocks them when he does.

The way his body jerks together and snaps up reminds Castiel of his own first moments in a vessel, centuries ago; when he didn't yet know how to fill every part of the woman's form and his movements resembled a puppet more than a living person. It's the first thing warning Castiel of his former friend's disorientation and complete incomprehension, an inability to do something as simple as properly possess a body.

Lucifer snaps open eyes the color of extinguished grace; a dark, dirty blue that verges on gray as if it was mixed with Sam's unique hazel colored irises. Given the other changes Castiel only has theories of explanations for, it doesn't startle him as much as it does Dean.

There is no recognition in Lucifer's expression. His Light is filled with neon confusion, but there's fear and panic stirring at the edges, steadily growing stronger. He skims over the room and over his own limbs in consternation, lifts his hands and stares at them in shock, just as surprised as Dean and Castiel were, if not more.

Dean calls Sam's name, and he flinches like he forgot the hunter was there, lost in a fever dream state of mind. He searches Dean's face with his strange, foxlike eyes before he turns to Castiel, but he doesn't appear to recognize them. 

Castiel needs to make sure it's the truth, not just appearance, regardless of how far fetched that idea is - it's not as if Lucifer could have plotted while he was unconscious and fractured beyond belief. He looks at Dean, seeing the desperation, shock and the flicker of hope before he asks the question. He chooses to call him Sam, if only for Dean and the indulgence of his own hope.

“Sam, do you... know what happened?”

Lucifer stares at him for a moment before a shudder wracks his vessel and his eyes screw shut. A pained whine forces itself from his throat as he's trapped in something they aren't a part of.

He seems utterly lost. His grace twists in panic and flutters like a caged bird, and with his poor control over his vessel, he goes into what Castiel had learned to be a panic attack. Lucifer's head hits the wall behind him with a dull thump and his chest falls and rises too quickly. 

It seems bizarre, watching someone this terrifying and powerful break down. Castiel has been at Lucifer's mercy before, and it taught him not to underestimate the archangel - but he saw parts of him only Sam, and perhaps his first vessel saw. He saw parts of him that changed his view, forcing sympathy on him Castiel didn't have the coldness to crush. 

The fallen archangel's mind was a terrible place to be. It was toxic, yes, because he made it so, filled with righteous fury; but there was resentment, the feeling of betrayal so great it buried Castiel under layers of cooling tar. Millennia of abandonment, of a single barren place that took toll even on a mind designed to be unbreakable. It festered there, eating away at Lucifer's psyche like a bloodthirsty parasite, until Castiel couldn't understand how anyone could live like that for so long.

But Lucifer never let go of that resentment, he buried it like poison seeds in hate and anger, until he couldn't reach the sadness over the red gleam of his eyes. Until Father prodded and loosened the bolts of it and it bubbled to the surface like splitting open a puss-filled wound. And Castiel sat in the corner of his own mind, observing the bleeding broken mess lifting its scarred face from under all the bravado, and God finally looked at the ruins he had made of his once most beautiful child.

And now he's sitting on the bed, shivering, breathing and rasping like his vessel's lungs are failing him, carrying that injured, melted soul inside of his volatile grace.

Dean turns back at Castiel, on the cusp of something reckless. Castiel looks at the hope he scrapped together and wishes the hunter wouldn't do something to get himself killed. Regardless of how vulnerable he looks right now, how helpless, he's still an archangel. Regardless of how childish, how ridiculous, or how many times Dean has scoffed at that phrase, he's one of Heaven's most terrifying weapons.

Dean doesn't care. In a moment of hopelessness, he pushes the thought of Lucifer away and brings forth every panic attack Sam used to have after the Cage. Castiel watches mutely as he pulls himself on the bed and grabs a trembling Lucifer by the shoulders.

Words addressed to his younger brother spill forward from his mouth in a gentle waterfall, guiding a victim of fear, not the devil. To Castiel's surprise, Lucifer calms down and stares at Dean, listening to the hunter's praise when he succeeds in slowing his erratic breathing. 

His gaze gets more intense before something clicks into place, recognition sparking, and he quietly gasps out Dean's name. He looks so very innocent in that moment, with his odd, hopeful face and earnest eyes. It doesn't seem hard for Dean to momentarily see his little brother, despite how different he is.

Lucifer suddenly snaps forward and snakes his arms around Dean, pulling himself forward and burying his head in the crook of the hunter's neck. Dean starts and tenses, and Castiel almost stands up, ending with him crouched over the chair in a defensive stance. The hunter cautiously lays his hands on Lucifer's back in a half-embrace, exchanging a look with Castiel.

Dean has no idea what's going on in the archangel's head, and Castiel doesn't have a much better understanding of it. It's pure luck that Lucifer doesn't hide his emotional state (or remembers how to) so the angel can clearly read the pastel relief when he feels Dean's arms around himself; along with the cold, sickly yellow fear that spills like spoiled milk over the palette of his mind. 

The pale new arms grab at Dean's flannel shirt and keep him in place when he tries to move out of the odd, somewhat disturbing hug, and Dean is stuck between feeling panic and plain awkwardness at the way Lucifer hangs on him, his lean frame slumping against the hunter. It's ice cold and clammy, which makes Dean shudder as he's reminded of who he's holding.

It's enough of a shock to almost miss it when Lucifer starts crying. It begins as a shaky breath and collapses into a scared sob, rising up his shoulders and tearing out of his throat in a garbled, strained manner. Dean carefully, carefully wrenches away and looks at Lucifer with wide eyes. The archangel doesn't look back. His dark hair falls forward to obscure his tears, but his shoulders shake and breath hitches. 

There doesn't seem to be a specific reason for this; it's just a mix of helplessness, stress and confusion. Castiel has watched humanity for a very long time, and while he doesn't understand it, amnesia victims or any human that doesn't see a way out can start weeping. Dean slowly stretches out an arm to place it on Lucifer's, who's once again gripping the bedspread like a lifeline, and asks him to tell them what's wrong. It's a ridiculous question with a lot of obvious answers, but Dean doesn't know how to deal with this, and saying nothing just seems wrong.

Lucifer doesn't answer. Outside of choking out one word he hasn't said anything, and Castiel wonders if he's even able to string together coherent sentences. He moves towards the bed, confident that Lucifer won't try and hurt him, at least not now. “Can you talk?”

Predictably, he doesn't receive an answer, and searching Lucifer's grace only brings more confusion. The edges of the archangel's Light wilt with shame and the urge to hide, to wrap himself in wings folded into his grace (Castiel is sure he does not know how to manifest that part of his Light either, so at least he doesn't need to worry about him flying away).

Dean tries to get him to look up, and Lucifer's puffy eyes look silver when he finally lifts his head. He glances to Castiel as well, and he cringes under the attention. His lips aren't moving with words, and his eyes are still full of panic, darting across the room.

His vessel tenses, and neither of them get any warning before Lucifer springs off the bed.

Dean yells and jumps away when the archangel tumbles to the floor, and Castiel's chair scrapes the floor with a loud screech when he steps back, startled.

Lucifer twists on the ground like a wooden figurine, wearing his vessel the way he would loose clothing, and sprints through the open door and into the hallway. Dean follows him after a moment, shaking himself and calling Castiel to follow him. It's easy to obey the order instead of thinking about what happened, slipping into the soldier role he played for eons before the Winchesters. He runs after Dean.

He can just see the stumbling, barefooted shape of the former hunter before he bursts through the bathroom door and slams it behind himself, his long brown hair whipping around his head at his jerking movements. It's probably disturbing to Dean, but Castiel is used to it - it's seeing it on Sam that unnerves him, still recognizable to Castiel. He can't imagine what this is like for Dean.

He stops beside Dean, who is staring at the closed unlocked door. “What was that?” Dean snaps quietly. “One second he was looking at you, the other he booked it down the hall.”

Dean wants to know far more than why Lucifer ran, but Castiel can only give him so much. There's a shuffle inside the bathroom, and their voices go silent before continuing quietly. “I'm not sure how much he remembers,” Castiel says, “He didn't recognize either of us, and he mostly felt panic and confusion. Luc- Sam probably couldn't take the stress anymore with us there.”

Dean's gaze darts up at Castiel's eyes, catching onto the use of Sam's name. He thinks quickly. “Cas, how... much Sam is there?”

Castiel grimaces. “I don't know. Nothing we saw is something specific either of them would do.”

Dean doesn't seem satisfied with the answer, but he doesn't press. His heart is still beating erratically, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Castiel can practically see him pushing away turbulent emotions to focus on the here and now. “What do we do? We can't leave him in there.” His eyes move to the doorknob, itching to step in. Castiel grabs his hand and makes his voice firm enough to break through to the hunter.

“Dean, if we're both there he'll panic.” He tells him, “I... I should go in. I can tell what he's feeling, and I can check what's going on in his mind.”

It's a decision made on the spot; of course it's true, and likely the best course of action right now. If Lucifer lets him, he could delve into his mind and see why he doesn't remember them, which Dean can't do. It would also remove Dean from the area in case Lucifer's deadly grace lashes out.

But any of that could trigger the wrong memory or startle the archangel. With a well aimed snap of grace, he'd be destroyed like a mosquito - and as weakened as he is this comparison can somewhat match him. He had been killed by Raphael, and later by Lucifer himself, and he remembers the way they pulled apart his core and squeezed it until it exploded outwards.

Dean slowly nods. “Okay. What should I do?” The hunter goes back to seeking guidance now that the next course of action isn't clear, so Castiel thinks and tries to answer him calmly and clearly. “You shouldn't be in front of the door, he can already hear both of us.” Dean cringes and nods again, giving the door another look. “Just wait in the library.”

Dean waits another moment and turns around to walk down the hall; then he looks back at Castiel in concern. “You'll be careful, though.”

Castiel stretches his vessel's lips up in a small smile. “Yes.”

He follows Dean with his gaze when he slowly moves down the hallway, reluctant to leave Castiel alone. He knows the seraph is right, so it isn't long before he can hear Dean pacing around the library two corners away, the bright point of his soul twisting in anxiety.

He turns his attention away from the hunter and back to the bathroom. Lucifer is still, and his angelic hearing can catch the shaky breathing rasping through the silence. Castiel doesn't know how to address him, so he decides to avoid it entirely and gently knocks on the old wood. “Er, it's Castiel. I am going to come in, alright?” He berates himself on the wording, but pushes the awkward thought away and carefully listens for a reaction. 

He doesn't get one, but he knows Lucifer had to have heard him. He takes a deep breath and slowly edges the door open, steps in, and after a moment of thought closes it softly behind himself. There's no light in the bathroom, but their grace-enhanced eyes can still see everything clearly, so he takes in the tiled bathroom. Excluding a few overturned items, everything is untouched; Lucifer didn't look for a hiding place further than the room's corner, huddled beside the bathtub.

Castiel crouches down so he isn't towering over the figure, sitting with his knees pulled towards his chin and watching his every move with wide open dark eyes; tear tracks glistening in the poor light spilling in from under the door. Castiel warily crouches down in front of the archangel, hoping he doesn't appear threatening.

“Hello, Sam.” He starts, unsure of how he should get to the point he's trying to reach. “Do you remember me?”

Lucifer scrunches up his face in concentration, following every line of his vessel's expression, the trench coat, Jimmy's messy black hair. Castiel doesn't sense him observing his grace, so he must have forgotten that as well. Castiel waits, contemplating his next words when Lucifer suddenly jerks and lets out a pained sound, grace contracting and clenching around Sam's soul. It's similar to what he had done before in the bedroom, but Castiel doesn't know if he could calm him down the way Dean did, or if he even wants to.

The archangel breathes heavily for a while, and Castiel can see his grey eyes moving under the eyelids. His skin seems inhumanly pale in the poor light, and his dark hair falls in dirty locks over his smooth face. He doesn't look anything like Sam.

Lucifer suddenly takes a shaky breath and presses closer to the wall, somewhat calm. His grace gets that edge of shame and guilt again as he glances at Castiel. “S-sorry.” He stutters out, tongue awkward in his mouth, his voice higher and clearer than Sam's was two days ago. Castiel looks at the genuine guilt his eyes hold and wonders what he saw in the latest flashback.

He doesn't say anything, and the longer he stays quiet the more crestfallen Lucifer looks. It's so honestly childlike Castiel needs to do a double take and remind himself that this state is almost certainly temporary.

But it provides a chance for the childlike trust as well, as long as Castiel seems like he deserves it. He decides to take a shot and hope for the best, Winchester style. “Listen,” He starts, keeping his voice soft and gentle. “I would like to help you, see why you don't remember me. May I touch your head?” 

Lucifer watches him, half incomprehending and half hopeful, but certainly trusting; perhaps Sam's memories of him influenced his perception of Castiel.

“I won't hurt you.” Castiel adds. It's not a lie; Lucifer is an archangel, and what might leave a human braindead would only make him a bit disoriented. He doesn't know how invasive mind reading is, what a violation it is to breach into someone's most closely guarded privacy - their very thoughts. 

Lucifer looks at the expression Castiel is trying to make as earnest as he can and after a few long heartbeats, he briefly nods his head, the long limbs that tightly hug his torso loosening. The seraph scoots closer and slowly raises his arms to Lucifer's temples, laying his fingers on the pallid, cold skin. Castiel wonders how Dean ever hugged him and called him Sam. How he didn't instinctively tear away. The same grace pervading Sam's body once choked the seraph into submission, freezing his mind, and now Lucifer is unknowingly handing it to Castiel on a silver platter to do with as he pleases.

Castiel hopes for the best, forces himself to stop stalling and delves forward with his Light. 

His grace only skims the edges of the Fallen's disorganized mind at first, looking at its state from afar before unraveling it for himself, trying to keep out of memories as to not disturb Lucifer into lashing out. It's a complete mess, but after a moment he can roughly estimate what's going on.

If Sam and Lucifer fused together gradually, their mind might be a seamless tapestry of mostly separate memories. Instead, they shattered like two glass dolls thrown against each other, which isn't far from the truth.

The memories are evading them - _him, there's only one mind_ \- like oily jagged pieces of glass, cutting and pulling him when he grabs at them into an intense flashback. He could put them together, Castiel thinks, if he knew how. If he reached the right memory.

He edges closer, wanting to skim through the disconnected snippets and memories, wading through the confusion and mounting fear like a pool cleaner he saw on the television. His grace scratches over Lucifer's and Sam's being, carefully observing the broken fusion and wondering whether Father was sloppy or if he intended it to be like this. 

Whatever their personality is like is still unclear, but Sam is technically the copy of what Lucifer - Heylel, back then - was like when he was first created, in the very first millennia of the universe's existence; and Lucifer has been getting further from that with every eon since the Beginning. Where exactly does that leave him?

Castiel stares at the jumbled thoughts, catching glimpses of motel rooms and the gardens of Heaven as they haven't existed in many millennia. There's clear memories of what happened recently, and the emotions, free of memories, hold surprisingly strong: Sam's love for them and his fear of losing Dean especially, mixed as they are with Lucifer's wariness and resentment. But there are emotions he didn't expect. Overwhelming shame and guilt, even though Lucifer doesn't remember all he's done, stemming from Sam's good conscience and the bloodshed of Lucifer's past actions. It's startling.

Even more shocking is the realization that _this_ , the conscience that had always pushed Sam Winchester towards the good side, might just be exactly why Father did this. The other option is worse, the chance that this, something so destructive and rash and horrific, was only done as _risk mitigation_. Castiel feels sick to his stomach.

He gets closer to the centre of Lucifer's mind, piercing the surface thoughts and trying to see deeper; and he somehow misses the blind panic shaking Lucifer the more Castiel digs through his core and touches the inside of his grace, his soul, as immersed as he is in the past. Lucifer starts struggling.

Could Lucifer-Sam consciously connect the pieces and put himself together? It would only be logical, or Father wouldn't have done it. As he is now, he doesn't even know he used to be two different beings.

Sam doesn't know who he is supposed to be. He isn't aware of all the toxicity, hate and depression that crashed over him like a landslide. Castiel thinks back to what chained him and shudders. Nobody should be caught up in that, hell, not even Lucifer. 

He barely gets a warning in the shape of pure, stark white terror before the archangel grace folds into itself and erupts outward in a desperate attempt to eject the intruder.

Castiel is ripped out and his mind forced back into Jimmy's former body just as it's thrown back and away from the shrieking, scrambling archangel, and feels his skull splinter and crack against the tiled wall.

  
* * *

  
This was a terrible, awful mistake.

They seemed nice and well intentioned - but he should have known better. They wouldn't help him, he knows why - the taste of their resigned fear still lingers on his tongue, the feeling of their damaged grace when he held it down with claws he doesn't have.

He stumbles away from the horrifying, bright person, pushed away and sliding down the charred wall on the other side of the room. Their staring blue eyes roll around in their sockets, unseeing, but he still feels the need to get as far away as he can.

He feels naked and exposed. Violated, like they stripped him and rudely examined every inch of his being. They invaded everything, _touched_ everything.

He's still reeling from it all, pushing away the memories this inspired in favor of staring at them in fear while trying to get as far away from them as possible. He sees Dean when he sprints towards them down the hall - the door was blown off its hinges and lays on the floor - and his footsteps are far too loud.

“Cas?!” He screams, looking between them and dropping to his knees, glancing in horror at the dripping blood and brain matter on the blackened concrete. “ _Cas-_ ” Dean gently touches the slumped form of the glowing-inside person on the neck and their arm.

He hears a wet crunch from where he's huddled in the corner trying to shield himself with his arms, and stares in horror at them when the back of their head glues itself back together with a gentle glimmer of light and they take a gasping breath. They're fine, and their body heals itself like it didn't even loose all that blood.

Dean lets out a relieved laugh and grips their arm tighter, but he's (what's his name? Why can't he remember his own name? Is his name Sam?) absolutely horrified. They're _fine_ , and they could hurt him again. He lets out another involuntary sound of fear, and suddenly Dean's attention, along with theirs, is on him again.

Dean looks at him exactly the way he was afraid he would, maybe with less anger; full of wariness and horror and shock. “What the hell did you do?” He growls out, making him shrink back even further until he's pressing against the wall behind him.

“Wait!” They suddenly rasp out and their hand reaches to grab Dean by the sleeve. “It wasn't... wasn't his fault.” 

They wear a guilty expression when they look over at him, and he feels like they're staring into him again. He wraps his arms tighter around his chest, and Dean examines his expression. He doesn't know what he looks like, and his face doesn't feel like he can control it at all; but whatever Dean sees it seems to calm him down a little.

“I entered his mind.” They continue while moving their legs to stand up. “He doesn't know what he did, his grace protected him on instinct.” 

Dean helps him stand up. “I thought you were dead, Cas. You said you'd be careful.” His voice is so worried, so wonderful when he talks to them. Then he catches onto the name, Cas, that Dean had said before. It must be their name.  
Something new slots in place and suddenly he knows.

 _Castiel_. He mouths the name under his breath and Castiel looks over at him in surprise. Images trickle past his eyes again, but this time they're not as blurry or as confusing, they don't fill him with nausea or make him scared. Castiel. His friend with his awkward, dedicated nature. He knows Castiel.

He suddenly says his name again, louder this time, like he's testing what it feels like on his tongue. It comes out a bit jumbled and slurred, like his mouth is too slow, and his voice doesn't sound right, it's not deep or raspy enough, but the name is alright. 

Dean and Castiel blink, taken aback; maybe he said the name louder than he meant to. But he feels a bit steadier now that he knows who's here with him, like things will go better now and they're not as unfixable.

Castiel clears his throat and straightens his trench coat. “I... I know what's going on. I should explain it.” 

Dean is still staring at him, and his expression is slightly incredulous. He doesn't understand why. “Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.” He shakes himself and nods to Castiel. “Away from here, though. This place is wrecked.”

Castiel takes a step towards where he's crouched on the ground, and he flinches away from the... seraph. He knows logically that this is his friend, but he still hurt him. He still feels like everything is gawking at him.

Castiel must know this, because he backs off and looks away. Dean comes closer to him, and his voice is wary behind the concern and softness. He glances around the ruined room and back to him.

“Okay, so... we're going to- to the library. Cas is gonna tell us what's up with your head.” He's speaking carefully, like he'll somehow produce the crashing wave that hit everything again if Dean isn't gentle enough. He doesn't even know what happened that first time.

He nods an okay and staggers to his feet, sways and somehow keeps standing. Dean watches his movements with a disturbed expression. He doesn't understand that either.

“Uh, alright. Just...” He gestures with his arms towards himself in something he deduces to be a come-with-me way and starts slowly walking towards the empty doorway, shambling over the fallen door. Castiel is faster, and it calms him down that Dean is between them.

His feet feel like his joints are either too greased or too wooden, and it messes with his balance. It feels like there's something wrong about his bodyvessel- as well. He's taller than Castiel and Dean, but the fabric of his clothes shifts and rustles around his shoulders and his arms and his limbs move differently than he feels they should. He wants to know why he feels that way.

He keeps following Dean until they step into a larger room with long wooden tables. The walls glow from the inside and on the surface with tiny, web-like marks and strange symbols, some of them blue and white, some of them golden, interwoven together into a messy tapestry. It radiates and whispers things into his eyes, _Go away_ and _protected_ and _keep safe._

It's pretty and familiar, so he lifts his head to look around - and promptly looses his balance. The room spins and he falls to the side, uncoordinated; his limbs don't listen to him fast enough and he doesn't move his arms to catch himself in time.

He lands on the hard floor with a grunt, feeling helpless and incredibly stupid. He wants this body to listen to him. He wants to understand what's going on and stop tripping over every new piece of information. 

The others turn around as soon as they hear him, and Dean comes to help him stand back up - looking like he both wants to help him and stay away while watching him struggle by himself - and extends a hand towards him.

He pulls his long legs closer and positions them to stand up like it's a chore (and it is) and props himself up with his arms. Then he takes a moment to stare at them, because they are not his arms.  
In the stronger light of the room, his skin is pale like it hasn't been under the sun in years, and the blue veins on his thinner-than-they-should-be wrists are clearly visible through the translucent skin. 

He doesn't understand this, either. Dean shifts awkwardly when he leaves his hand hanging there and it reminds him that time has passed. It's moving too quickly for him. He wants to cry again, but that's something he feels others shouldn't see. He wants to do something by himself, so he stands up on his own. Dean looks like he was slapped by his choice of action, but that makes no sense. Shouldn't he be proud? He is his brother.

Castiel sits down on a chair and waits until they mimic him - even if in his case it's more of a flopping down. Dean glances at him, then back at the seraph. “Should... Sam hear this?” He questions doubtfully.

Sam. His name must be Sam. It doesn't feel right though - more like a nickname he had for a little while. It doesn't fit perfectly, just like his hands don't.

Castiel shakes his head slightly. “There's no use, we can hear across the entire bunker. And he needs to know anyway.”

He doesn't like that they talk like he isn't right there listening. His displeasure must show on his face, because Castiel awkwardly sends him another apologetic look. Then he gazes back at an expectant Dean and starts talking - most of which he doesn't understand but has a horrible feeling about.

“All of their memories are still there, but they're... disconnected. Broken up.” The seraph searches for words while Dean stares at him intently. “Their cores fused like I'm guessing Chuck intended to-” Dean flinches. Who is Chuck? “-But their minds went through a shock. I think the memories were all pushed aside so the mind could properly settle.”

Dean's breathing is slightly shaky and Castiel clearly didn't want to say all that. But he _doesn't understand._ His fists clench together. “Who?” He ends up saying. The blurted word was something he didn't fully intend to say, since he would much rather let out something more dignified and normal. His mind is disorganized. He tries again. “What happened? Why? Who is Chuck?” The words don't feel like they're under his control at all. He can't stop. “Am I Sam?”

Dean and Castiel stare at him, then at each other. Uncomfortable silence reigns while the speak to each other with their eyes, something he (Sam?) doesn't feel like a part of. Then Dean looks at him. “Do you... remember who Sam is?” He asks like he's afraid of the answer.

He does, doesn't he? Sam. Sam is... He blinks. He remembers that Dean is his brother. They've known each other for a very long time, but he feels like Dean is much younger than him. But he didn't raise Dean, did he? 

He raised a brother. He raised other brothers. The words _sister_ and _siblings_ suddenly dance across the forefront of his mind, and he remembers a warm feeling from so long ago it's more of an aftertaste. He has a family, or at least had one. He also has a Father, and a bitter feeling strikes him at the thought. Something very, very bad happened, and he shrinks away from those memories before they could dump their pain over him like cold water.

But that doesn't feel like Sam. That family doesn't fit together with that name. 

He tells himself he knows Sam. And he does, Sam is Dean's brother.

He knows Sam because he spent years with him, in the same place. Because Sam trapped them there. Because he tortured him and talked to him and cut at him and left him alone for months to come back and made him feel things he didn't want to feel and went away again and fought with an older brother who isn't Dean -

Dean is grabbing at his arms again, yelling over the noise. His lips are moving, but he can't hear his voice, and his face is blurry when Dean crouches above him. An overturned chair lays beside his head, and his head hurts where he hit it against the warm floor. Or maybe he's just that cold, he can't tell. 

He runs out of breath and the screaming stops.

He suddenly remembers another name. It's a worse one, sharp and elegant and cruel, and he's had it for a very long time.

He mouths it, then when he's sure he got it right, he says it. Dean lets go of his arms, and when he looks at him there's fear hidden under the lines of his face.

He was right, when he first realized it. Dean does hate him, he's afraid of him. Because he screwed up their lives and he's pretty sure he's screwing them up now. His eyes want to cry, but that's still not something he feels they should see.

He understands a little more now, and Lucifer isn't sure if he's glad he got what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with temporary amnesia thing since I can't see someone who just went from being two seperate people to one properly coherent. I also wanted a sort-of-moment between the brothers before Dean doesn't want to touch him with a ten foot pole. *cough*
> 
> And yes, LuciferSam looks different, but ya'll won't know everything until he finds his way to a mirror eventually (:


	4. It's A New Day, It's A New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a long filler chapter, since it's my take on Lucifer's entire history while he remembers, some flashbacks included. The language is a bit confused at start, since said archangel isn't thinking straight, but it'll get more orderly. The story will progress more in the next one.

He can feel their eyes on him while he trembles and shakes and sobs; vulnerable at their feet. Literally, because he can't get up from the floor. 

He curls into himself and tries to stop the jerking spasms his body is insisting on that rip out of his throat and make it harder to breathe, that force loud, pitiful sobs out and into the silence. His sight is painfully blurry, salty tears irritating his skin where they slowly drip down the side of it, the pretty blue lines he saw before all mixing together instead of staying seperate from the things he can touch.

He wants to stop; a growling voice telling him this is unbecoming and shameful and he's being useless and pathetic and he needs to stop spilling fluids and sounds everywhere because he shouldn't be this stupid, weak mess at all.

He feels like a leaf caught in a destructive, rushing river, and isn't sure whether he wants to ride it out alone or have someone throw him a lifeline.

They're still looking at him, unsure of how to react. Before, he didn't know all this. Before, he was harmless and stupid _(he still feels stupid)_. This seems to change quite a lot, given their reluctance to offer him any help at all.

He feels like they're stripping him of his dignity, staring like he's some sort of aberration, and Lucifer just wants them to go away so he can calm down and his head will stop hurting and he won't be so confused anymore.

But they won't leave, because they need to keep an eye on him, since he's a monster and _monsters destroy and torture and ruin everything they touch_ and they need to make sure that he doesn't.

He wishes Dean would hug him again and everything would go back to being simple and nice. But Dean won't ever hug him like that again. Instead, he gently touches his arm near the shoulder, and when Lucifer doesn't resist and instead deigns to fix his eyes on a chair leg, he hoists him up into a sitting position.   
It's somewhat better but he still wants to be left alone. He wants to tell them that, but words are getting stuck between his teeth and in his throat and his chest is still doing its shaking thing. “Go-” He hiccups. “Go away. I... I wa-wanna be a-alone.”

He can feel Dean hesitate for a moment before he straightens up into that hardened something Michael _MichaelMichaelMikha_ used to do, becoming a sturdy wall he can lean on even though Dean is just as scared and uncertain. He used to hate it most of the time, he knows, but he's glad Dean is being strong right now because he feels like a melting puddle.

“I don't think you should be by yourself, especially right now.” Dean says with minimal tremors in his voice, “We should focus on this. Starting with how much you remember.”

Dean isn't treating him like he's fragile anymore, even though Lucifer has never felt more breakable. Can monsters hurt like this? Maybe Dean doesn't think they can, and they shouldn't.

He doesn't know what happened.

There are too many names thrown around his head, making their way into his thoughts, but he can't place them. Sam is always there, but it's different with it; like a distant lifetime he's trying to recall-

_DeanCastielSamGabrielMichaelDeanSam Sam Lucifer_

He feels bad. As in, he's fairly certain he's a bad person. Castiel still has drying blood on the back of his trench coat, there's no need to look further than that, even if the blood he spilled is still sticking to his hands. He glances at them, and it's _not there_.

He sniffles like a helpless child, and hates himself a little more for it. 

“Come on, let's get you back in the chair.” Dean says, and Castiel picks the furniture in question up and sets it down like it was before. Lucifer lifts himself up and sits back down on it, all the while not meeting their eyes.

“Okay.” Dean takes a breath and crumbles just a little more. “You remember Lucifer?”

He shakes his head in a sort of, I'm not sure gesture. It's true enough. “A bit.” He whispers quietly. Dean forces himself to nod and acknowledge his answer along with all its loopholes. His next question is more desperate. “What about Sam? Do you remember him?”

No, not really. But Dean is scary and hopeful and his eyes are red and he wants Dean to like him and hug him so he nods anyway.

Dean's face is changing so much, so quickly, expecting something, and he can't tell what he wants or what he should do. He's just confused, and Castiel's head is positioned sideways on his neck while he stares at him, and Lucifer can see inside of him to the swirly colors and light bumping against the skin outside.

Something clicks in his brain and Lucifer suddenly doesn't want Castiel to see him like he sees Castiel. The colors under his own pale skin are full of purples and greys and blues and they feel personal and private, changing and edging into a darker brown now. Castiel is looking at the brown too, and he hates how naked it makes him feel, like that's something his friend should have no right watching. It's like before, in the bathroom, like Castiel is still somewhere he shouldn't be.

And then he knows, he remembers like he would remember how throwing a stone is done. He grabs at the edges of himself, fuzzy in his grip and slippery, but he bundles his errant Light together and covers up the colors he was spilling outside so Castiel can't see them anymore.

Castiel's eyes widen in alarm and he tenses like a taut string, causing Dean to snap his eyes towards him. “What?”

Castiel's eyebrows - his _vessel's_ , that's not Castiel, he is the swirling, glowing thing inside it- lower as he examines him. Lucifer hopes he can't see everything, whatever everything represents, because he feels like there are so many things he doesn't want Castiel to know. Except he doesn't really know them himself, and he wants to see what he's supposed to be hiding.

“You can remember,” Castiel states slowly, “You are not inhibited in that regard. But you haven't done it.”

He needs a moment to comprehend what Castiel even said, words filtering into his brain only moderately faster than they did a while ago. Dean has to blink before getting the meaning of the sentence as well. It must seem out of place to him, who doesn't have Castiel's senses and wasn't a witness to Lucifer's internal pleading for the lesser angel not to figure him out - whatever there was to figure out. It's not much yet.

The fact that Lucifer is put together enough to plead silently despite the constant confusion persisting in his head says a lot, but luckily Dean doesn't pick up on it to this extent. 

Instead, Dean must have come to a strangely hopeful conclusion with his answers, because his expression doesn't seem so despairing anymore.

Lucifer hopes Dean doesn't want him to remember more. He just screamed his lungs out reliving his time in the Cage ( _with Sam_ ), after he remembered taking care of his siblings when he was much, much younger. He doesn't want to go through it again.

He knows that whatever happened involved his Father, but he doesn't remember how, or most of the last years. Given what he already knows, it's bloody and terrible. He doesn't know how this Chuck fits into it.

_The not-wind of the Highest spheres catches in his pearlescent feathers, blowing stronger up here among the golden celestial hues. He can see the training garrisons far below, the newest flock of seraphim flying in imperfect formations behind their Teacher. His eyes settle on one of the smaller ones, observing the peculiar pitch black wings - a color that will not help the fledgling gain favour with the higher ranks. The seraph can feel his Gaze on his midnight blue grace and one of his faces turns up, azure eyes blinking in awe just like any other angel's. Lucifer remains expressionless and simply beats his lowest pair of wings faster, gaining speed and flying away from the inexperienced would-be soldiers._

Castiel is his little brother. Castiel didn't know him when he wasn't ravaged by the... _dark oily thing that pulls and pecks at his Light_ , he is far too young. He feels bitterness rising at that realization; that his friend only ever saw him from a distance, as a cold, arrogant prince (wait, that's not right, he wasn't a _prince_ ) and not who he used to be. Then again, he doesn't recall what he used to be either. Perhaps he has always been a monster inside.

He sends Castiel a look he hopes will convey his apology for bashing his head in against the bathroom wall. Castiel blinks and takes in the message Lucifer is trying to send with a slight nod. Maybe he imagined the nod.

Dean is completely lost, and the silence dragging on for half a minute now is slowly unnerving him. “Uh, so should he remember? I... I don't know what the hell we should do. Sam, what did he mean by that? Can you remember everything if you want to?” 

Lucifer has a rather human urge to chew his vessel's lips, but he refrains from doing it in favor of focusing on the rocky conversation they're trying to have. “I... could.” He answers slowly. He knows that the strangeness of his vessel must be his fault somehow, but he doesn't know how to fix it, and he won't go searching his mind again. He still feels tears streaking down his cheeks and crusting his skin with salt. He wonders what he looks like, and thinks the answer is rather pitiful.

Dean takes a breath. “Then... you probably should, right? You can't just...” He gestures to him, and Lucifer knows he's referring to the three breakdowns or near panic attacks he's had since he's woken up. Because of memories.

He can't keep doing this. He can bear the nice moments, the good images and calm memories from long ago; but the violence stored inside his head and spilling over his eyes is too painful for him to just accept as it cuts him open - _Angels, snarls and terror etched into their numerous faces, claws dripping with grace that falls into the silvery, starlit paths below until they run with spilled life_ \- He grips the table's edge so hard his fingers dip into the wood with a loud splintering sound, and his head pounds like it's being hammered from the inside.

He growls and pushes through the flashback and back into the present. That war has been over for thousands of years. Castiel looks at him with the first glint of worry and Dean grimaces. “If this is what happens every time, than maybe doing it in... in one sitting might be the best. Right?” He doesn't seem sure, but none of them want to deal with a Lucifer who falls over every other moment and looks like he's barely holding on to his vessel. 

Especially not Lucifer himself.

He takes a breath and feels annoyance when it's shaky. “Y-yeah. You're... right.” Dean looks at him with expectancy and dread, but Lucifer doesn't do anything to indicate he's even about to start recalling his past. It's a bit like standing at the edge of a cliff, having someone tell you you won't die if you throw yourself over. You don't want to jump, so you stare down at the rocks you can't see but know are there to impale you. 

Even knowing all the embarrassment to come if he doesn't do this, it's not enough motivation to dive in. There's a lot he doesn't want to see.

Castiel can sense his apprehension, along with everything else, and gives him a sympathetic look, almost like _pity_.

It makes him feel even weaker, even more childish, and his temper flares at the seraph for making him feel like this. Castiel quickly looks away, and the part ih him that isn't Lucifer feels sorry for the sting of panic the angel feels because of him.

Dean stares at them wordlessly. Lucifer takes a deep breath; then a couple more to try and even out his breathing that's been raspy from crying. He should do this, or he won't understand. What he knows boggles him and makes his head pound, filling it with things he doesn't dare think about. He needs to know what happened.

So he lets go.

The gibberish that whispered in the back of his mind bursts forward the moment he doesn't hold it back like a horde of wild dogs, gaining shape and sense. He buckles under the crippling weight, a dozen billions years pressing down too quickly, too _much_. He pulls back in fright like a bird the ocean almost pulled into its depths, fluttering up to a safe distance and hoping for safety.

He tries to remove himself from his own mind as if he's trying to view it from outside, but he only succeeds in ordering them just enough to spin back in time like a movie, the most recent memories from the fight with Amara to the first failed apocalypse. Sam's memories mix with Lucifer's, and he needs to consciously separate them to keep back the confusion.

There's no way he could have foreseen how the recent memories would hit him, transcending anger and resentment, leaving him to gasp for air in shock and utter incomprehending beffudlement.

_'And I am so... sorry.'_

He had apologized. After so, so very long, his Father owned up to his mistakes. Lucifer felt peace, like cold water running over burns that have been stinging agony for a small eternity. He felt joy. He felt _loved_. And it all went up in flames.

It went up in a blinding white light and a purging force ripping through his mind, stitching together scars and scrubbing away black ink he felt would stay there forever. With a foreign mind pressing against him and pushing ever closer, terrified thoughts that didn't belong to him barging their way into his tattered grace until he didn't know who they belonged to, until his mind was swallowed by darkness and he lost consciousness. 

The horror of what happened to him, of what Chuck did to them freezes his already cold veins and makes bile rise at the back of his throat.

He feels ruined. Tainted and far too clean, stripped of the darkness he had held close like a shield no matter how badly it burned him. 

He didn't know this would happen, never thought it could, that something like this was ever even on the table. Isolation, yes. Stripped of his powers to teach him a lesson - of course Father could do that, there was always a chance he would, even in the Fall. But not this.

He mindlessly claws at the imagined lines in his mind, rips at himself, pushing apart memories and thoughts that really have no clear line between them anymore. He seals away everything he doesn't remember yet, separates as much as he can from _the other person_ as if he can keep himself as he is now. Somewhat... himself.

It's useless. He can't stop the flow of water now that he's already drowning. Something that tastes like betrayal and sorrow rises up his throat and chokes him, like the burning remorse his-Sam's morals bring, the unconditional love for his human brother. His shame and guilt that fuel his need to be a good person, hoping that good deeds will repay for all the damage he's brought. His bright soul, scarred and bleeding by Lucifer's own hands.

His Father had done this.

Because he wanted a fucking _redemption arc._

Lucifer is too infuriated and too miserable to deal with everything beyond the last couple years (his relatively brief second stay in the cage included) so he snaps open his eyes. His grace is glowing furiously, pooling behind his eyes and burning through the pupil in a way that would blind his host, if he had it; he can see the color blue reflecting off the world around him, his cleansed light making itself known.

His grace ripples, and he knows that if he doesn't calm down soon it will spiral out of his flimsy control.

Castiel pulls Dean forcefully away, overtaken by panic in the face of an archangel about to combust. Lucifer wants to rage and destroy and cry out, but that would hurt Dean. It would hurt Castiel. 

His family, his friends.

And he can't hurt them, _could never_ hurt them. He wails, his true voice mixing into the cry and twisting it into an inhuman caterwaul of anguish and fury. It threatens to shake the foundations of their home, burn every tome and shatter every glass pane.

He stumbles back and pulls at his hair with his changed hands, the too-large sleeves riding up his lifted arms. He had lost so much in his existence. His family, his home, his deteriorating mind, his once perfect form. It took him ages to convince himself he accepted the monster he became, that he would stay one forever. Now... now he doesn't understand why it needs to happen again.

The smell of his brothers' fear hangs thick in the air, and it makes his insides sour with grief. He wants to get away, where he can rage and mourn and not hurt anybody.

A pair of his wings unfurls out of his folded up true form, stretching out through the astral plane. They feel weak somehow, raw. He can tell that their shape has changed - that Sam changed his form just like Lucifer changed Sam's. They're longer, the secondaries broader and the primaries further apart. He doesn't need to look at them to know that while no longer damaged, they are no longer white.

Lucifer flaps and launches himself onto the same plane of existence as his light, pulling his vessel along with him. The world shifts around him as he flies faster than a human could follow, beating furiously without direction, skimming the stratosphere before diving down. He rips through space and tumbles back into the world, running into a tree and tearing holes into his clothes. 

It's night time where he completes his pathetic excuse for a landing (he's not used to the way air swirls around these wings). Lucifer can't feel the cold, but he sees frost covering the forest floor and the pines around him. There isn't a soul anywhere near him. 

The dam of his anger explodes outward.

_The colourless walls of the Cage are merciless, unyielding as he pummels at them with his limbs, wings, tails, teeth. They bear no scratches, no damage, even as his claws chip, his feathers break, his teeth go dull_.

Wood splinters, the ground freezes and cracks. He relishes the groaning of bark, trying to dispel his unending frustration.

His grace lashes around without any control or supervision. He is too splintered to use it anyway, and he suspects anything he might attempt would botch itself up or fizzle out of existence.

It doesn't do much for him, his strength doesn't tire, the skin he scrapes and tears heals scarless. It's still unblemished, dirty but whole. Pale.

_Scars, darker than their Light, like grooves and valleys across their grace, bleeding. It's change, it's something different, it's something to feel. It's been so many centuries, and their claws are still dripping grace. They see something that isn't the way it has always been; laughing at the hilarity of it._

_It doesn't matter. Nobody will ever see them, nobody will know what they had done. Father doesn't care anymore. Nobody cares, not even Michael. Nobody would call them pretty again anyway._

He collapses against a charred tree stump and stares at the night sky, visible now without all the leaves and branches. There are speckles of stars visible through the cloud cover, and he observes their twinkling for a few peaceful minutes.

He ignores what he still has to know, bending his mind like the page of a book when he only wants to read half of it. Whatever he is, the archangel part of him is the bigger part of the mixture as he is now, and he would rather shut Sam away forever, but he can't do that. It's not right, Dean wouldn't want that, and it probably wouldn't work anyway.

Still, he stalls before letting the images drop over his eyes again. In his... not selfishness, but the priority his bigger part feels for themselves, he works over Lucifer's first, or at least tries as hard as he can to.

He has a good idea of the last decade - the recent memories came first, and he assumes that the holes will fill themselves in as he goes (he can't know that). Which means he needs to remember his imprisonment next.

He tries to skim. 

He would love to, and he partially succeeds, his empty head filling up with an incredibly long, bare stretch of time that begins with impossible rage and millions of escape attempts, collapses into pleading and prayers after mere centuries, and then sinks into broken fuming and detached drifting. 

He doesn't want to remember the insanity, the violent delirium, but he does. The reminders were always there unless he took a vessel - and he has one. He doesn't want to remember, and he's always been willing to partake in as many mental gymnastics as he needs to forget about it.

He knows that the jail time he did didn't logically last that long in the grand scheme of his life. He's older than a human could ever comprehend, and Sam's meager thirty three years are drowning in the billions upon billions of years Lucifer has dragged himself through. But Hell has a way of stretching it out until it feels much longer, until forty thousand years feels like millions and one's mind falls apart under the weight of isolation and loneliness.

He could have worshipped Azazel when he rekindled his hope for the possibility of freedom. He's sure he hates the prince now, his former brother, but back then he had almost persuaded himself that he made up another hallucination, just like every imagined sibling screaming in agony, his celestial origin being the only reason all his mental faculties were kept intact through it all.

It's strange, recalling his thoughts about Sam. He hadn't addressed the double conversations yet at all, but the way he had perceived himse-Sam Winchester is both completely normal and unexpected. He can't order that yet.

But Sam was something almost mythical, an idea, a piece of information given to the archangels by his Father, that turned from a fact into something he barely ever thought about. _They will be your True Vessels_ , Father said. From a time the humans were first in design, when it was made clear the small fleshy creatures would combust and deteriorate under their might, Father gathered them to explain about one particular human.

Power they couldn't imagine yet, were the words. A physical form, a vessel between the celestial and mortal world, a shape to channel all their power. Perfect reflections, the humans that would complete them, Father said with joy.

Just an attempt to endear them to the tiny, wingless creatures, Lucifer thought snidely.

He never changed that opinion, but the vessel he didn't yet know became his last hope, the last escape. He thought about what Father said, and thought that the human would strive for the same things. That they would be the same, and Sam would understand and help him finally get the revenge he had been planning for centuries. 

The hope this inspired being crushed hit harder that he thought it might, that Sam turned out to be a reflection of who he was when he was first created; the studios, gentle person who enjoyed bringing light with his dimpled smile and yearned for justice. Someone incapable of understanding who Lucifer became, because the archangel had changed too much.

It made his grace twist into painful knots, his broken grace shuddering under Nick's deteriorating skin. Under the anger laid sorrow and loss for the fierce love Michael used to hold for him, something he was sure had crumbled away in the millennia before his Fall.

' _Why must you be like this?!' Michael screams. The gates of their private chambers shake with his desperate wish for his brother, the one who no longer acts like himself._

The ugly thing that Sam Winchester caused to grow and bloat in his mind was familiar more than most other emotions, on pair with Lucifer's fury and betrayal.   
Envy. Sam had what Lucifer no longer did, and he wanted Michael to love him, just as he wanted the world to love him, the demons to adore him and his Father to care again. 

It hurt in an exhausting way, a wound that keeps festering and getting torn open just to be infected by maggots all over again, perpetually oozing his sickness. So he took his ever present anger and covered up the pain with it until all he wanted was for the others to hurt for what Lucifer didn't have, for the precious gifts they owned that were taken away from him.

He wanted to take from Sam what he lost. He wanted to destroy Dean - _It's okay, it's okay, I'm here, I'm not gonna leave you_ \- until Sam felt the same thing he did.

Except Sam didn't, because Sam was innocent in a way Lucifer wasn't anymore, curious and loving, and he screamed for Dean like Heylel screamed for Michael.

The devil broke under it, a mess in a way he hadn't been in a long time, succumbing to the yearning for something unreachable - the want for things to go back to how they used to be, for _himself_ to be what he used to be, regardless of his pride or his stubbornness. He couldn't face the bitter, unchangeable reality around him, so he looked away for just a moment.

He was falling.

Tearing at the seams of his vessel, his grace impossibly heavy as it was pulled down, pressing together under a pressure the likes of a black hole. He shrieked and screamed in terror while Michael yelled in anger. Michael didn't yet know what awaited them, and he wasn't as scared as Lucifer. Unknowing, ignorant.

He thinks that perhaps, as he watched Lucifer trash and howl and rip at the Cage, shrieking obscenities and drowning in wild desperation, Michael almost looked frightened.

Through his defeat, he vindictively wanted Michael to feel what he had felt. He wanted to watch as Michael slowly went insane at his newfound powerlessness and the silence in his Light now that their siblings' minds were cut away. He felt sick for thinking it, but he wanted to observe as Michael tore himself apart in madness. Then they would both be equally broken.

Michael blamed him for their downfall, his failure in controlling his vessel and _allowing_ them both to be dragged down; his aggression was righteous and blaming as they fought. They didn't fight forever.

' _This is all your fault.'_

He pulls away from what came after that. The memories pull back at him, just like they did before, in the bunker's library.

' _What did you think would happen, Sammy?'_

He already knows this, a part of it at least, the violence his paralyzing terror wrought. He hated himself almost as much as he hated Sam.

' _Do you regret it yet?'_

His vessel's knees, the ones he's had for thirty three years (or at least similar to them) wobble, weak like they can't bear his weight.

He can't not remember. It's all right there, even though the seraph scratched out so many weeks, months of torture - they lay in his mind, broken and woven together into a tattered whole that lacks true sense. 

' _Sam. Sammy, look up, now. Look at me.' He does, even though his neck creaks and the remains of his skin split open from the exposed flesh and blood spills down his torso in a trickle, mixing with the dry trails already there. He's just a soul now, seperate from the archangel now that there's no body for them to share; alone in a head he doesn't actually have, naked, defeated and maddened with triumph of his heroic destiny. The ruins of a hunter stare up, eyes burning._

His grace shudders, screams, rebels against this, everything that this is; his unfamiliar body does too, revolting against itself and him, insides twisting and throat constricting. His Light wants to wrench itself away from what it doesn't know, and his soul howls, a shrill non-sound that manifests as a strangled growl into the frozen trees. He's tangled in himself, stuck, trapped. 

His legs give out and his stomach roils like it wants to crawl out through his mouth, and the sour remains of a celebratory beer force their way out and down onto the charred forest ground. It would have been gone days ago had it not been for his grace, freezing his vessel in whatever it is he looks like now, leaving the contents of his stomach the same as well.

The horrid taste lingers on his tongue, overwhelming his already strained mind with the molecules making up the regurgitation. He purges it, grace rippling with effort even at a command as simple as that.

He retches again, feeling tears drip down from his eyes and sees them hit the ground. 

_Wrongwrongwrong_

Everything is as it shouldn't be. He didn't deserve this, did he? 

He didn't deserve that pain. He didn't deserve the Cage - Father said so. He didn't deserve the hurt of it. He didn't ask to be twisted into something that could rip apart a soul and laugh about it.

He didn't deserve to be ripped apart, beaten down and tortured, deprived of hope and family, and then forced into this, whatever this is. Sam wasn't a bad person, even if he felt that way sometimes. His evil didn't light a candle against Lucifer's. Why does he need to suffer for this as well? Why, after all the horrid things life has thrown at him, would this happen as well?

He pushes those thoughts away and grits his teeth. He's not going to cry again, won't further prove his weakness to... well, the broken forest. Himself.

He keeps going down the memory lane instead, but this time he decides to walk - stumble - away from the site he created, long legs slipping over the tree roots. They at least seem mostly the same as they were. 

He relives the rebellion that came before his imprisonment; not a particularly well-thought-out war, if it could be called that, given his deteriorating mind and senseless actions. His motives wouldn't have warranted the drastic stunts he pulled if it weren't for the Mark. His jealousy and rage swelled and snapped under the all consuming darkness until it was all he could think about, growling his petty reasoning to himself while he paced, thinking about every loving look Father sent to the humans when he was right there, praising and being a loyal son.

He sneaked down to Earth and touched a human woman's soul, twisting it with the same darkness that corrupted him. Lilith's inky essence tore out of the confines of her body and formed into something ugly and terrifying, sharp-toothed and milky-eyed.

His actions got worse after that, continuing and building up until he would take the very final step, when he was no longer held back by Father's unbreakable orders because he needed to show him that he was better, more worthy.

His planning was frantic and sloppy, lost in a haze of his aunt's blackness. He dragged unworthy, rotten humans to the lowest dimension where they would twist into the worst versions of themselves, proving to his Father just how fundamentally bad they were. Involving his home was only a matter of time. His rank held the respect of the entire Host, and he used to be... lovable. Adored. It took little effort to convince hundreds of angels that weren't fond of humans to side with him. 

Even millennia before, Lucifer never would have considered doing what he did to his siblings. He never would have thought about spreading his disease or using his responsibility and burden to harm his family. But when he twisted four of his siblings, all he felt was sinister curiosity. 

_Azazel's heads bob in excitement, their chestnut feathers puffing up. Ramiel smiles confidently to their two younger siblings, shuffling nervously behind them. Ashmedai, a high cherub with little power and a sharp mind, blinks their many eyes up at the archangel. Lucifer twists their pretty visage into a smile and extends a blackened edge of their grace down to Azazel, just like they did with Lilith, just like they did to other humans. This might take a little longer._

Regardless of help or the numbers he had, the rebellion was an absolute disaster. Not that it wasn't expected - going up against Father would always be futile and a rather ridiculous endeavor, but he really only wanted to make a point. He doesn't know when it got out of his hands and turned into a war. 

It all only lasted a measly decade from the moment the Mark overtook him and until Michael's forces captured him and dragged him along the Axis Mundi to the Hall of Judgement; where his limbs were chained and siblings stared at him in passing, scrutinizing him with accusing eyes from every platform, whispering about the grace dripping from his talons.

Michael's sky-blue eyes glinted with fury, disappointment and pain. He left Lucifer bound on the podium in the large white auditorium, decorated with the imagery of the three archangels of justice, judgement and punishment; under the eyes of everyone until all his remaining soldiers were thrown into cells that hadn't existed before then and the rebellion had been uprooted.

Lucifer bitterly wondered who would punish him: Father or Michael. His grace clenched at the thought that Gabriel would have to be the one to pass judgement, but nobody had seen the youngest archangel anywhere, not for years. He didn't want his little brother to see him that way, though, and neither did he want his other siblings.

He awaited judgement under the gazes of his brethen for a long time while all the angels gathered for something that would surely be a spectacle. He knew his punishment would be declared the very last; he was to wait and watch as every last one of his surviving soldiers were captured, see the extent of his failure while being exposed to the others to be ridiculed and shunned, his dignity stripped away.

Most of his soldiers were cut down, and the Universe lost hundreds of angels to the Void. He saw the disappointment, grief and anger in Father's eyes, and it cut at his grace to see it. Father's Sorrow was obvious, and Lucifer wished he could cry - but he didn't, not in front of everyone.

Almost a hundred surviving angels were lined up for Judgement, and the elite seraphim Michael personally trained banished them to Earth and cut them away from Heaven, condemning them to fading out and joining the humans in Hell. Lucifer thought death was better, and he became afraid.

Michael ripped out the twisted grace of his four remaining generals and threw them into the infernal chasm; Ramiel turned around to stare with his empty eyes before Michael finished with Dagon. Only Azazel, his most loyal if not the most intelligent, stayed blindly devoted even while he gasped out for breath under the oldest archangel's sword.

Lucifer was the very last one, and by that point he was certain his punishment would be the worst. In his fear, the Mark lessened the hold over his mind and he turned pleading eyes to his most beloved brother, hoping he would side with him, protect him as he always had before. Michael refused to look at him, his faces turned away and his copper wings smoothed down and folded. 

Raphael was among the angels as well, looking hagard from the war's toll on her siblings, but she still joined them while her division of healers worked tirelessly. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen.

Father came to stand before him and kneeled down, so that he could reach to his son's core where the Mark of his Sister pulsed, and slowly carved it away. It tore out of the mass of black, infected veins and taken away to be quickly given to another host - it could not be free for long unless they wished to risk the Darkness escaping. 

The Key and Lock was gone, but Lucifer didn't really feel any different. The oily taint remained, ruining the pure light of his former beauty. Beauty he'd later ravage himself in the insanity he sank into, but at the time, he couldn't imagine that even being a possibility. He had no idea what awaited him, not really; he could only dread his final sentence.

He heard that the Mark would be Cain's punishment for killing Lucifer's little side project Abel. He snorted at the thought that the Mark came to be considered a grievous punishment now, no longer the great responsibility now that they'd seen what it did to the bearer.

Michael dragged his bound form to the deepest point of Hell, to a Cage sealed with over six hundred seals, where he would stay imprisoned in isolation. His grace was cut away from the collective mind of Heaven and his mind plunged into silence, his role as a pillar supporting it was erased so that the other three archangels would take over. 

Michael's eyes held no anguish that was there when he first chained him, no matter how hard Lucifer searched for it. He didn't get the privilege of standing tall before he Fell, courtesy of the forbidden runes carved into the chains, ones that dampened his light and forced his limbs to lock up, for his feathers to dry out and lose all their dangerous sharpness.

Michael flew away, leaving him alone, the farthest Lucifer had ever been from home.

He didn't see Gabriel the entire time.

  
Lucifer gasps out when he's done, shaking off the tiny crystals of ice that frosted over his cheeks while he was lost in his memories. It's a lot, even though he technically knew all of this a few days ago. He feels like his mind is new, instead of just hit with some weird amnesia.

The cold pine forest blends together as he takes a break from remembering, mulling over the information and the conflicting emotions his... Sam side is feeling.

After an hour, he stops beside a small stream and sits down on a rock. 

There's eons of what came before the war, and quite a lot of it are happy memories. The millennia before the mark consumed him is bleak; his personality was sinking down, and he completed tasks and responsibilities with coldness. He didn't socialize with the lower ranks, and limited his time to Michael, Gabriel and Raphael.

But before that, there's _family_.

  
From the moment Lucifer was made, unknowing and curious, they idolized Michael and loved Father with all the fierceness of an innocent child. Michael was always by their side, teaching them everything they had learned in the centuries they existed before Heylel; and then did the same for Raphael.

When Gabriel was created, Heylel adored them as soon as they blinked open their glimmering eyes. They took them under their wings and raised them just as Michael raised Heylel.

They trained together, preparing for a fight with the Darkness, as was their Purpose, the reason they were created at all. They learned about her misdeeds from Father, listened to their fights and occasionally spent short moments with her. She could be rather nice, whispering softly and telling them about the Universe, but they didn't like her presence. The archangels were made out of their Father's Light, but she didn't have even a speck of it, and it pulled uncomfortably at their grace.

Amara fought them like a vicious, cornered animal as soon as Father completed the attack that weakened her, but drained him. They circled her and held her down, using every skill they had to keep her from destroying them.

They succeeded, and helped Father when he locked her away in a dark, empty dimension, and created a dark seal from her own black grace. A seal that needed a living creature to power it, keep it existing.

Father turned to Heylel with love in his eyes, and gave them the biggest responsibility they had ever had. He gave Heylel a lock and key that took shape over their grace and sank under their white scales and pearlescent feathers. It pulled on their grace, but Heylel's light was too bright for the darkness to dampen it, so they learned to ignore it.

Life changed drastically after that. Father splintered their reality into different dimensions and planes of existence, and they were baffled when they saw they couldn't touch some of them, existing just slightly outside it. They were such simple planes of existence, and couldn't take the impossibility of their many overlapping faces, dozens of perspectives that folded and fractured into each other.

Father created other creatures from his light, much smaller and weaker than they were. But they were their siblings, so they loved them and helped teach them. Gabriel was the most adept at it, and they called the new angels Pash, the eyas and the fledglings. 

They were always the most closely knit flock, but they accepted the new members into their family. There was a time without ranks, orders and responsibly, when they could play across the planes and preened each other, adoring everything they knew and learned, worshipping and loving Father for giving them life, form and power.

They created the Host together, and each archangel supported a part of it. Raphael was given a new gift, the gift of healing and correcting their Father's errors, so that she could help bring creation in her own way just like they did.

Heylel brought light with their stars, watched Father as he praised them, and gave them the title Lucifer, his Lightbringer. They liked the name and the praise, and felt pride in themself.

The mark only started pulsing stronger when Father first started planning Earth, his most complex project that would be his most beautiful.

He started talking about a species he had thought of, and about immortal souls that he would give them. About their free choice, and admittance into their home. Lucifer felt jealous when Father paid less attention to his children and more to the tiny creatures that would occupy the planet.

The mark spread over their grace, so slowly Lucifer hardly noticed, over the span of billions of years. It slowly killed their ever present curios nature, their generosity, their willingness to see the lower ranks as equals. Gabriel stuck with them, and Michael still took them under their wings at the end of every time-span they had for days, but they felt... colder.

They became arrogant, and realized fully that they were more beautiful and far brighter than the others. Their talons were like molten silver dusted with diamond-like scales, the elegant antlers swept back from their head like a starry crest from their perfect face with kaleidoscope sapphire eyes; and their six narrow, pearly wings were made of glowing ice and lightning.   
Lucifer took care of their appearance from then on, and made sure to hide the black stains to deep for the others to see.

Then came the humans, the beings with souls put into tiny, weak fleshy forms, that would sully the halls of Heaven after they died. Who were somehow better than them in the old man's eye.

His Father, who bathed him in love and who Lucifer loved more than anything else, wanted all his children to bow down in front of the humans. His Father loved them more than he loved the angels, more than Lucifer - the second child, made with so much care, shaped so carefully and filled with so much brightness, even now that the dark was slowly dampening it.

Lucifer didn't want to do it, even as the judgmental looks of their siblings ate away at them. But they didn't do it.

And everything went downhill.

  
When Lucifer opens his eyes again, the sky is painted over with pink and purple, and he has tears streaking down his cheeks. Grief feels like it's going to halve his heart. 

He remembers Gabriel. The little brother he loved. Who he killed.

Lucifer remembers the shocked, sorrowful look Gabriel gave him before his grace imploded, the look that carried all the memories they made together, their entire history.

Lucifer had cried after that, back then. He locked himself into his warehouse and wept his heart out for what he did, incinerating every demon that dared come close. He's feeling all that grief and overwhelming guilt now, all over again.

He weeps, folds down on the ground beside the stream and stays there while the sunrise brightens and fades into a new day.


	5. You're Just Looking At It Too Closely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Dean pov, then back to the confused archangel.
> 
> I'm not all that happy with this chapter, since the end doesn't explain everything, but the next chapter will fill in the unwholesomeness :v

Dean watches intently as Sam closes his eyes and exhales a long, shaky breath. The bunker seems eerily silent without someone filling the silence, especially after Sam screamed his lungs out like someone was skinning him alive and made every hair on Dean's neck stand up. 

He's having trouble figuring out how to react to every new thing his brother does. He doesn't know what to expect, and what happened now is throwing him for a loop - not that Dean knew what to expect before he woke up, but this is so far from what his nightmare plagued imagination made up his thoughts keep derailing every few minutes.

Sam is staring around with confused eyes, lost and uncoordinated, gazing at Dean with a look that's reminding him disturbingly of the younger brother's hero worship he used to get when he was younger, and plunging them into long silences while he tries to decipher what was said.

He looks so terrifyingly strange the longer Dean looks at him, at how his skin moves under the library's light; his reshaped eyes, still red from crying and looking like somebody sucked out all their numerous colors. It's freaking him out, and he misses the time when Sam's sleeping face hid almost everything screaming out _different_ and _Lucifer_ to the older hunter.

Dean's hands still feel shaky from the fear he felt when he heard Castiel hit the wall and the bathroom tiles crack, but he's not that wary of Sam anymore. Despite the impossible power threatening to explode something at any moment, he doesn't seem like he wants to hurt them, and the sheer vulnerability that comes with a breakdown is lowering his defenses more than he knows is smart.

Besides, Sam remembers being Sam, and Dean couldn't be more relieved. He looks at him with lost eyes, not like the monster Dean knows Lucifer to be. It gives him that tiny bit of hope he needs that his brother can be saved - even if it takes carving Lucifer out of where Chuck put him, regardless of what Castiel believes. Cas has been wrong before.

Suddenly, Sam's expression shifts into pain, his thin eyebrows knitting together in a way Dean knows very well. He leans forward to possibly stop another meltdown when it turns into anger.

Dean stops before he can touch him, surprised. Outside of a suspicious twitch of an eye at Castiel, the only emotions he saw before now were confusion, panic and fear. This desperate fury shakes him to the core, and he can't stop the coldness in his lungs when he realizes just how cruel it makes this face seem. 

He startles when Castiel roughly grabs his shoulder and practically yanks him away from Sam; and Dean suddenly registers the rising cold in the room, the smell of ozone and winter that begin to pervade the air. Dean looks at his friend and widens his eyes at the panic he sees.

“Get away!” Castiel shouts at him and shoves him away from Sam. Dean stumbles towards the corner and turns back to look at Sam. The table creaks under white fingers clenching the wood.

He abruptly opens his eyes and bright blue spills out from under his eyelids, crackling with barely contained power. Dean's heart clenches and he takes a few steps back. Castiel is still trying to push him to the doorway.

Lucifer - because that isn't _Sam_ \- let's out a haunting screech like a hundred birds voicing their sorrow and anger and _hate_. It eats its way into Dean's brain and drowns out everything, so loud he feels like his ears will bleed. Then it stops, and Lucifer turns his head towards them, eyes still glowing with angelic grace. His expression is devastated, and Dean has never been more scared and confused at the same time.

Then the archangel stumbles back, his face twisting with so much emotion Dean can barely tell what he's thinking, tearing at his too-long hair and letting out something between a whine and a growl. 

A soft rustling sound wisps into the ringing in his ears, and with a loud flap and the accompanying gust of wind, Lucifer disappears.

They stand there in the deafening silence for a few moments before Dean takes a few steps forward, looking over the space Lucifer, or Sam, was just occupying. “Where did he go?” He mumbles aimlessly. Neither of them can know, and the archangel about to blow up could be anywhere in the world right now.

He lifts his head to look at the distressed angel. “What just happened? Where is he?” Castiel is still rooted in place. “I don't know... his wings...” He shakes his head to get out of his rattled mindset. 

Dean is suddenly hit with panic as the fact that Sam, Lucifer is gone and he doesn't know where he is or what will happen catches up to him. “We have to find him,” he blurts and frantically looks around the large room. “He can't just be out there. If we-... we can use a locator spell or something.” He tries to remember where Sam keeps the books with the assortment of spells they've been using in the last years, but his mind is so disorganized he doubts he could find his way to the toilet.

Castiel looks at him, and Dean hopes he's about to be the calm, logical person because he can't do it right now. That's Sam's job. “Dean, I don't think we should do that,” He says, and quickly goes on to explain. “He will come back. But he needs to calm down first and probably work through everything. He's... feeling a lot.”

Dean doesn't know how Castiel can say he's going to return with such certainty - maybe he saw it in his mind or something - but that last part was hesitant and Dean doesn't want Cas to sugarcoat anything for him. He has eyes, he saw Lucifer was about ready to destroy the bunker. Dean can have his own private meltdown about that later.

“We can't sit on our asses while he's out there, Cas.” He snaps. He doesn't even know why he's angry at the angel; he's helping and trying his best just like him, but pushing down stuff he doesn't want to feel usually leaves him with anger, and Castiel is the only one here to take it out on.

“Well, _Lucifer_ most likely just remembered what Father did,” Castiel says, and his voice is harder, “And having him here while he vents isn't something particularly wise.” Dean fumes at the sarcasm Castiel seems to use whenever Dean is being 'difficult'. Castiel goes on in a calmer tone. “He's upset, and even before he knew what happened he didn't want us there when he... broke down. It was intrusive. I think he might stay away until he figures out everything.”

Dean grits his teeth. He can technically understand that; he doesn't like showing what his dad called weakness in front of other people. Lucifer has a ridiculous amount of pride, so having a panic attack and sobbing was probably something he straight out killed people for seeing. But this should be Sam, dammit.

This has _just_ happened. Dean needs to know where he is, what he's doing, whether he'll see a destroyed town on the news the next morning. That right there was an archangel, a very distressed rouge one, and he's God knows where now.

“Right.” He tries to say, but it still comes out strangled. “Can't be that long.”

Castiel's lips are a thin line, and Dean turns away to plant himself on a chair and wait. Sam would come back, and then he could figure out how to get him back. It couldn't be that long.

  
* * *

  
He eventually gets up and starts walking again. His shirt and pants are in horrible condition, but he doesn't fix them out of some stubborn, pathetic wish to punish himself. Lucifer finds out self-deprecation extends to clothing, and he snorts humourless at the sky, which has gotten progressively more clouded.

The aimless walking he focuses on neatly divides his attention between the monotonous nature and Sam's memories, offering a half-respite. The terrain slopes uphill and he strides forward, jumping over roots and sliding over wet pine needles. It takes a while to get to the top, but the view shows him a faraway town planted lower in the valley, and the black site he walked away from far behind him.

The differences between his memories as Sam and as Lucifer were expected, but they still startled him. Everything his human mind locked away or buried had been dragged to the surface until he could recall everything, every school lunch and knife practice. His humanity meant he missed senses and the ones he had were rather dull, so the memories he had looked flat, lacking in detail - but at least he has no trouble distinguishing between them.

There was no point in stalling over some fear of change, and his pasts would force themselves on him whether he wanted it or not. It makes him so angry, the continuous breaching of his rights, his mind, choice and body controlled by others while his decisions are taken away. His grace crackles with ice.

Sam's perception of the human world is far different than Lucifer's, and they don't meld together into some new, half-positive and half-negative thing; no, the hard shaped thoughts just float there and fight for dominance while confusing the crap out of him. He can't pay attention to what his opinion is supposed to be though, because that would take a brooding session on its own and it actually isn't the priority right now.

Sam loves, forgives and saves. Lucifer doesn't do any of those, because he enjoys doing the opposite; and that fact suddenly makes him feel ashamed, in the way his first cruel thought made him feel millions of years ago. Sam abhors being a monster, and the times he came close to being one haunt him. He isn't particularly human right now, but he doesn't want to be either. 

He loves Dean, and the simpler life he led with him is something he prefers to this absolute mess, but humans are weak creatures that value their mortal flesh above their soul, even though they have a shot at Heaven. They destroy with no regard for Father's captivating Nature, his perfect handiwork of a planet. They live mayfly lives and leave no mark, as if they were made just to die. Prey for the stronger species, for the monsters they're too dumb to see.

No, he doesn't want to be human.

But he knows he will miss Dean when he no longer sees him as a younger brother, just like he missed Michael when he turned his back on him. It will _hurt_ , just like it hurt before. He wants to avoid it, but he can't leave Dean waiting with no explanation. The hunter will track him down anyway.

Then there's Heaven. The place he desperately wanted to return to when he first fell, and learned to hate as a coping mechanism. That's been falling apart and dying. His siblings losing their wings, their strength.

Lucifer threw away the care he had for his family long ago, but it's the most important thing in Sam's. The human's memories sting him, and his actions as Sam add to the body count. He used to love them, and he had killed hundreds of them, most in the war, then after he opened the cage. The notion of family has been lost for a long time, and he suddenly wonders when they started thinking of each other only as fellow soldiers, medics, commanders. When the words 'brother' and 'sister' lost their meaning.

He doesn't want to face Dean and Castiel yet, his two brothers who hate and fear him. But he cares too much to stay away without doing... something; he doesn't know. As soon as he gets himself together and thinks everything over.

Lucifer looks at the nearby town and judges that it probably doesn't have a motel, so he unfurls his wings again and flies to one Dean and he hunted in before, landing crudely behind the same establishment they stayed at the last time. 

He's not sure why, but he wants the normalcy of going to a motel. He wants to take a shower (manually) and get himself looking normal, put on clothes that aren't dirty and torn and fix his tangled hair. Maybe actually see what he looks like. Remembering that motels require payment, he rubs his fingers against a pocket of the jeans that have been stubbornly sliding down his hips, conjuring a couple of bills with a quick twist of his grace.

Then he walks into the building and to the receptionist, a woman with dark hair and too much makeup. She blinks at his muddy bare feet and dirty clothes, but this is just enough of a seedy town she doesn't comment on his appearance, used to all sorts of people coming in.

“Hello,” He greets her. “I need a room for... a few days. One queen.” His voice sounds so strange. When he was Sam, his voice didn't cut through the air like butter. It didn't sound like a melody. 

She squints at him. “You alone?” He doesn't understand why she asks that, but he nods anyway, keeping his face from grimacing. “Alright, I need your ID. You don't have a definite time?”

He blinks, thinks it over. “Uh, three days?” He sounds so unsure, but he doesn't know and he could just fly off when he wanted to anyway. His ID is probably still in his old jacket pocket. With a quick thought Castiel wouldn't notice in his weakened condition, he summons it to the hand she can't see and pushes it towards her over the counter. 

She opens it, glances between it and Lucifer and then gives him a flat look. “Is this your friend's or older brother's?”

He gives her an expression that screams befuddlement and just plain _'what the hell_ ,' but he can't care. He just needs a room with some privacy - and he really needs to find a mirror. Lucifer hates this dragging conversation.

She sighs. “Look kid, it's not my thing, but you came here without a bag, looking like you fell into a-”

Lucifer leans over the counter and touches the receptionist's temple before she can jump backwards. “The ID is fine,” He says, letting the meaning take over her mind, making it an irrevocable truth for her. “You should just give me a room, I can pay for it.”

It's a good thing the hall is empty and the sky outside is dark here. She sinks back into the chair and nods mutely, writes a room number and pastes it beside her screen, then reaches back and takes a key off the wall.

Lucifer feels rather guilty for doing that just because of his impatience, but he's glad he can get to dealing with his still settling mind faster. Still, he hands over more money than he would need to, giving her a tip. He can literally make money anyway.

He takes the key from her, and she doesn't say anything back, her eyes still glazed over. 

The room is at the end of the hallway, and Lucifer can tell most of the humans in the building are asleep. He decides to take a shower and get rid of his clothes first. 

Sam locks the door of his motel room by habit and walks to the small bathroom attached to the mediocre bedroom, glancing at the off-white walls and the flimsy bed. Luckily the sheets have been washed.

He turns on the light in the small tiled bathroom and quickly strips off his clothes to throw them away. He could repair them, but he realises he doesn't like the flannel style anymore. He's an archangel: walking around dressed like a lumberjack is neither dignified nor respectable.

After he gets them off, he trails down his body with his hands in tired surprise. He was right: Lucifer's grace warped Sam's shape just like the human soul changed his.

His lean, almost wiry form resembles how he looked like when he went to college, not Sam's muscled, towering one. His skin isn't tanned, but pale, as if trying to imitate Lucifer's original pearly white appearance. He snorts derisively at the thought. 

He turns around to see if the mockery of a bathroom has a mirror, and spots one on the wall beside the shower. Then he walks over to look at his face for the first time.

He can't believe Dean didn't stare at it more. Well, he did stare at it quite a lot, but Lucifer didn't assume it was because of what his face _looked like_. The first, most obvious thing is that he doesn't... look thirty-three.

He doesn't look like _any_ age, now that he's trying to pinpoint it. The glaring lack of any sign of aging, either the slight scruff he wore or the crow's feet at his eyes say he might be under twenty, but his face doesn't seem childlike or teen-like. He just looks timeless, ageless, perpetually having a decade removed from him while staying Father-knows-how-old. His true form has the same quality though, as does any other angel's.

It's confusing, so he focuses on what sets him apart from his younger self instead. With his immaculate memories of every time he brushed his hair in front of a mirror, he can put together that he'd be more liable to be mistaken for a brother than himself at... that age.

It's as if his entire appearance is... colder. Sharper. 

His greyed, washed out eyes are noticeably more upturned and prominent than they were; his jaw isn't as strong, making his face heart-shaped rather than rectangular, leading down from high cheekbones into an elegant chin.

His hair at least is the same shade, but his almost sickly skin tone makes it seem darker. It's matted with sweat and dirt, draping itself over his neck and laying over his shoulders. It was never that long a decade ago either.

He traces his fingers over the smooth bridge of his nose and blinks at himself. He doesn't look like a person matching Sam's personality. He looks a lot more like Lucifer - who had a long, narrow serpentine shape that shouted its elegance at everything, so bright it could blind lesser angels. Or it did, a long time ago.

The part of him that is Sam hates it. He seems unkind, merciless. The Lucifer part of his personality doesn't care all that much, but the appearance suits him, so he finds it fitting.

He notices his old tattoo is gone when he straightens up, erased along with all his hunting scars, but he shrugs it off to look at his wings, the part of his true form he can look at even while he's compressed and folded inside a vessel. He wants to know what he looks like outside of it, but he's afraid of seeing all the scars and blackened patches of rotting grace, interspersed with wounds that never healed in the cage. So he's fine with just wings.

The only part that still glows white is the primaries, like the edge of himself that his soul didn't reach, didn't change. But his secondaries are cold gray, and the feathers only grow darker the closer they come to his shoulders. He extends his fingers to touch the mottled, speckled vanes on the bend of his wing, the mix of slate gray, silver and copper making him frown. He parts the feathers, examining the closed up scars marring the skin beneath and leaving empty lines where there should be shafts.

Before they were burned by hellfire, ravaged and left without grooming for centuries, his wings were an artwork of different shades of white, from his cold coverts to slightly warmer primaries, ever shining with celestial light.  
His mottled, splotched new wings seem so... ordinary. Mundane, like so many other angels with drab brown, grey or black wings. 

He doesn't hate it as much as he thinks he should. As Sam, he had always wanted to fit in, be normal. It's not a blow to his vanity to realise he looks like your average secretary of an angel.

If Gabriel were there, he might say it adds character. He smiles, remembering his little brother's shape; his beautiful feathers that looked like molten gold, and the vibrant aquamarine and royal blue that danced across his back, his impossibly fluffy fur Heylel liked to ruffle playfully.

Lucifer pulls back into the present. Gabriel won't see him again, he will never comment on his wings or his soul. 

He steps into the shower and turns on the spray, waiting until it warms up. The water is scalding as it patters against his cold skin, but he doesn't feel pain. He takes his time washing his hair and soaping up, trying to clean out the smells and experiences along with old sweat and dirt.

Sam stays a while after he uses up all the hot water, since he enjoys the feeling too much for the cold to faze him.   
After he wipes off with a motel towel he snaps properly clean before using, he tries to think of something to wear.

He decides he can find something better later, and materializes a simple grey shirt and a pair of jeans. He weaves together a replica of his old shoes and sets them against the door along with a brown leather jacket, like the one he used to have.

He needs to order his mind somehow. Work through the memories and think over what he's mulled on ages ago, but should do again because his opinions and feelings on every matter have changed. 

Is he supposed to keep hunting? He was a hunter for years, and he enjoyed helping people. But he isn't sure if it's worth it, wasting so much time on saving a couple humans. He decides to store it away for later, but if hunting meant staying with Dean, he might just keep doing it. Dean was a human who would only live for a couple decades more, so cramming in as much time with him seems like the logical thing. His heart clenches at that thought. Dean was mortal. So Sam and Castiel would have to watch him fade away like one.

He starts thinking about the past instead, trying to reconcile his views and the brief double perceptions. The longer he thinks, the angrier he gets.

Father had no right to do this.

He didn't even know what he was expecting when he listened to his sickly sweet words. He just wanted back what he lost, what he just got a taste of. He just wanted a father he adored to love him back. He would have taken any scrap of attention Chuck offered him, would have followed orders as long as Father kept looking at him with patient, fond eyes, because the bitter truth is that Lucifer is just a child begging for attention and validation after throwing the worst temper tantrum in history.

That weak part of him thinks that maybe taking whatever chance this messed up, no-consent experiment is supposed to be will please Chuck. He beats that thought black and bloody. 

He doesn't want to change, especially because of Dad. Especially if it's what he wants Lucifer to do. He doesn't want to go along with whatever this is, whatever new plan, a twist in this convoluted story he's writing.

The memory of Father's misty eyed apology he replayed for himself hundreds of times feels so rotten now. As if he only said it to get Lucifer on his side, because he needed help.

He refuses to change because of this, but it's already happened. It doesn't matter how hard he sticks to the person he was for billions of years, because the man he was for thirty three years changes it. Not the memories, no - those are barely a drop in the bucket. But it's not as if Lucifer's mind can swallow all the emotions, opinions and views Sam's stubborn head held. Either it's because they're equals, or because Chuck made sure of it, he doesn't know.

He wants to punch something again, so he soundproofs the room in case he needs to vent. 

He'll get back to Dean as soon as he figures himself out to at least to some degree of functionality, and maybe gets himself a vague sense of his own identity.

*

When he lands on the gravel leading up to the bunker - quite a bit more gracefully, since he took some time to practice - he feels nervousness churning away at his stomach. It's a foreign feeling, and he has to check if everything is alright with his vessel just in case this is a biological malfunction.

His senses prod at the bunker's defenses that have been lowered to allow him in during the fight with Amara, and haven't been raised yet. Lucifer takes a moment to appreciate the patchwork of spells and traps that have accumulated over years of the Men of Letters' protection (to stall) before stepping up to the metal door. Castiel is moving rather quickly somewhere in the bunker, so he must have sensed his presence and is telling Dean. 

He knocks, even though Dean is already moving. His hearing can catch the steps as his older brother rushes up the stairs after seconds. Then the door opens, and Dean's disheveled, tired face appears on the other side. It's pretty clear he hasn't slept in a good while.

Dean's breathing is sharp and loud, and he stares at him with bloodshot eyes, the sclera making a peculiar contrast with his mossy green irises. Lucifer doesn't know what he should say, and he doesn't want to start with a small 'hi'. So Dean opens his mouth first and uses his raspy voice, his tone strangely upset and angry. “Where the hell were you?”

Sam blinks. What did he want to say? He had this all figured out. He didn't expect Dean to treat him like a runaway kid. Dean doesn't look like he expected it either.

“You were gone for days.” Dean accuses. Lucifer has a bad suspicion that Dean didn't sleep the entire time, or only fit in some naps Castiel forced on him like the mother hen he can be sometimes. He himself lost track of it rather quickly, but it can't have been more than three, four days.

“Yeah...” Lucifer trails, eyes glancing past Dean into the bunker's interior. “Can I come in?”

Dean stares at him for a few seconds longer, taking in his appearance - which is much more presentable, with clean clothes and brushed hair (still a nightmare to take care of, but he has grace to keep it in place so it's alright) - mostly looking at his face, as if he forgot what it looked like. He might have.

Sam's eyes dart down to his soul for a moment. He's seen it _before_ , but he looks at it with fresh eyes now. Despite how twisted with emotion it is, rippling and flashing with stress and anxiety, it is rather pretty. No wonder Castiel likes staring at the amber, russet and green tones, interspersed with veins of sienna and patches of burns and rot that must have been there since Hell, but don't diminish the beauty of it.

Then Dean moves aside and opens the door wider. Lucifer just nods awkwardly and slips in past his older brother, feeling strangely exposed. Then again, Dean saw him break down, so there's bound to be walking on eggshells for a while. He's still uncomfortable with that fact, but there's nothing he can do about it but pretend it never happened.

Dean shuts the door behind him, and Castiel stops in the middle of the stairs, looking at Lucifer. The archangel braves through the unnerving aspects of it and (rather elegantly, since he's now very adept at making his movements fluid) pads down the stairs, past the wide-eyed seraph and into the war room. His eyes skim over the assortment of tracking spells and books on the table.

Dean and Castiel hurry after him, catching up with his long steps and accompanied by Dean's confused cursing and calling after Sam. Lucifer stops at the cluttered table, finally feeling like he's on equal ground with the others through the unconventional way he took the reins of the coming conversation. It seems ridiculous even to him, but he knows he's about to be grilled on _everything_ , and Dean won't like the answers to most of his questions unless they're lies. Sam doesn't want to lie to Dean - he promised himself not to keep secrets after it continuously ended catastrophically.

He grabs a chair and pulls it out before sitting down and turning his grey eyes to his brothers. “We should talk.” He states the obvious, keeping his voice quiet and gentle, something he hopes will calm them.

Dean materializes himself into the chair opposite of him, looking like current stress is the only thing keeping him awake. Castiel sits down beside him, desperately trying his best to read Lucifer without the grace. The archangel can still clearly see what Castiel feels, and if he prodded harder he could peek through the colors and to his rushing thoughts. He doesn't do it, seeing the distress in the shifting muddy black and piss yellow is enough.

Dean doesn't know how to start, and he can see the hunter's jaw working. He decides it's best if he starts. “I needed to clear my head a bit,” He says, realizes how lacking it sounded, and keeps going. “Get all my memories together and think.”

He takes the risk of reading Dean a little deeper than he probably would have, knowing that Dean wouldn't approve at all, but feeling too uncertain of what he'll ask to stop himself. Dean is a twisting mass of anxiety and pent up expectation, most of his thoughts revolving around Sam's wellbeing. In any other case, he would have been moved by it, but Dean harbours so much hate for Lucifer he barely keeps from recoiling. The disgust Dean feels for him isn't amusing or even offensive anymore, not in the least.

He shuts Dean's mind away so quickly he almost gets mental whiplash. He doesn't want to look anymore.

Dean eyes are too wide for his comfort. “So you remember everything?” Lucifer nods. “Yeah.”

The hunter's reaction is immediate, his taut posture relaxing a bit and his expression softening with hope. “Sam.” His tone is relieved, like confirming he remembers being Sam is everything, all he needed to hear so he can move on to the next thing now. 

As long as he is Sam, the Lucifer part can be momentarily pushed aside so that Dean can chop it away. 

Lucifer knows what he should do is smile reassuringly, or do something Sam-like, or just generally not let his face twist into whatever frozen expression he suspects it's turning into while he brainstorms.

Castiel gets that sharp look in his eyes, the same one he got when he figured out Lucifer didn't want to remember anything else, except it's a lot more wary this time. Regardless of what Castiel has seen during his escapade into his mind, he doesn't trust him. “What do you wish to be called?”

He stomps on his bitter, ridiculously hurt thoughts and thinks. He's not entirely sure. 

He doesn't know what he wants Dean to call him. If Dean calls him Sam, it might mean he still thinks of him as a brother and Lucifer isn't yet doomed to his sort-of-older brother's rejection - or it could just as easily be denial. Hell, if it meant Dean is okay with him he'd probably handle the shame of being called Sammy.

Castiel waits through his rigid silence and asks again. “Who do you think of yourself as?”

The answer takes him two seconds to get out, being one he's noticed and acknowledged before, when he was alone. “...Lucifer.” It was the bloody wrong thing to admit. He should have gone with lying. Dean looks like he punched him in the gut, then thoroughly beat him up and finished up with a good flogging. 

“Most of the time.” He adds quickly, but Dean just looks more shaken. Lucifer suddenly panics, so he violently stuffs the unwelcome feeling down and tries to keep his voice from floating away. “It's just habit. I've been calling myself that for literal billions of years, it's logical.” He tries to offer the explanation, hoping Dean will understand.

Dean swallows and nods. “Makes sense.”

Castiel keeps looking at Lucifer while the latter bites his lips. “Can you describe everything? What happened with your minds?” It's a strangely worded question, but Lucifer himself is still slipping over the fact that his mind used to be split - at least, when he's not remembering. Castiel's question bugs him, though, prodding at his ever present anger.

“Well, you saw what happened already Cas, given where your figurative fingers were touching me.” He remarks, and he can't keep the spite out of his tone. Dean tenses up like a string, staring at him in the most strained mixture of shock, disgust and befuddlement. The seraph shrinks back, knowing how invasive his actions were, even if he thought they were justified at the time. 

“I didn't look through your memories,” Castiel says, trying to be reassuring, “I just wanted to see what was wrong.”

Lucifer snorts bitterly, giving the younger angel an empty smile as he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “A lot was 'wrong'. I imagine it looked like a massacre.”

Dean is getting increasingly uncomfortable at the rising tension, on the verge of saying something. Castiel replies quietly. “Like shattered glass. I wasn't sure you could recover like you seem to have.”

Lucifer grimaces. Either Castiel is dumb or he has no prospect of what recovery means. “Not sure I would call it that. I don't feel that put together.”

Dean takes a sharp intake of breath and lays his hands on the table. “We should figure this out, now that you're here.” Lucifer tilts his head at him, so Dean goes on. “How to get you back to being Sam. And Lucifer. Back to normal.”

Lucifer feels his eyebrows lowering in consternation. He can't imagine what it would be like. Who would he be? Would he just stop existing and two people he no longer is would be left? Would there be two copies of him, one without grace and one an archangel? 

If he's honest, he's pretty sure pulling apart would ruin him. The dregs of his stretched out soul would flounder and disintegrate without grace holding it up and every crack and fissure his soul is filling in his damaged grace would bleed again, worse than before.

“I don't think that's possible, Dean.” He says slowly, pulling himself from his thoughts. Dean has an odd look in his eyes, and Castiel slumps like he knew this all before. “There isn't a... a clear line between Lucifer and Sam. I mean-” He points at his face. “This is what my grace looks like, like a frickin potpourri of everything. How are you gonna split me? This isn't something you can do with a kitchen knife.” 

Except Dean might just be desperate enough to cut him down the middle with one. He doesn't want to entertain that mental image for long.

“But there has to be a way!” Dean insists. His eyes glint with wetness under the library's lights. “We can't just leave you like _that_!” 

It's pretty clear he's gesturing to the entirety of LuciferSam. As in, everything about him, except the parts of him that are Sam.

Now Lucifer is the one who feels like Dean beat him up, overshadowing the offended expression he tries to make. Like his insides are bleeding and his eyes are about to mimic them. Dean wants Sam. The 6'4 little brother who eats salads and loves research. 

This feeling is so bloody similar to when Michael screamed at him, centuries before the rebellion, that he wants back his Heylel. That Lucifer is no longer acting like himself.

He doesn't want to cry. He doesn't want to feel rejected, when he only wants acceptance. But that's impossible, so Lucifer tries to find something that hurts the least, just like he has always done. He swallows his sadness and narrows his eyes at Dean.

“Well, there isn't. You might as well deal with all ' _that_ '.” Then he stands up, because he needs to get away and this conversation is stupid and it won't change anything anyway. “I'm going to my room. I need to think.”

Then he leaves them there in shocked silence, utterly confused, while his long steps eat the tiled floor, taking him away from their judgement. His eyes leak angry tears before he closes his old bedroom door behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be bluntly honest: I am a Hardcore fan of Paolini's Inheritance books and sort of based Sam's look off the immortal elves. *COugH*
> 
> At first I only changed the color of Sam's eyes, but it was really strange writing it, since it wasn't as obvious that SamLucifer and his components aren't the same person, and it didn't match their personality. There's multiple reasons for every change, and they'll be revealed as the fic goes on.
> 
> He doesn't look masculine, but he doesn't look too feminine either, which is a nod to the fact that he doesn't have a gender.


	6. All Downhill From Here

He mulls over his bent mind behind closed, locked doors for over half an hour before a soft knock breaks the silence, and Castiel's low voice comes in, muffled by the wood. “Can I come in?”

Lucifer jerks slightly and quickly makes sure his vessel's face shows no sign of crying. He didn't shed a lot of tears for Dean's rejection (is that even what it is? He's Sam, he is. Why should he feel this way?), but it chipped at his mask every time he thought about it - so he forces himself to stop thinking about it.

“Yeah.” He calls out, and sits up on the bed as Castiel opens the door and steps in, closing it behind himself. Just like he did before, in the bathroom. Lucifer stops thinking about that, too.

“I've come to apologize,” Castiel says in a quiet voice, his eyes getting pulled again and again to Sam's face. “It was clear I hurt you, but I hadn't told you I'm sorry.”

“Oh.” Lucifer says flatly. He's pretty sure this is Castiel and Dean's way of trying to start a conversation or something. He doesn't know how they feel about how he's acting, and he isn't sure either.

The apology doesn't really change anything. The breach of privacy is not a big deal to Dean (he would need to think of a metaphor to explain it to him) and it's a slightly bigger deal for Castiel; but Lucifer wishes he could scrub away what the seraph saw with bleach. Castiel knows exactly how much he cares about Dean, how afraid he is, how much he _regrets_ some things. How much he hates himself - but that's hard to admit even to himself.

But one of those things he regrets is what he did to Castiel. Even when he wasn't trying to hurt him, or mold him onto something controllable and pliant, his presence burned away at Castiel's already battered grace.

“Well.” He starts, unsure how to say what he wants to. “We're kind of even now.”

When Castiel gives him a confused glance, he elaborates, trying to get out the words and finding it increasingly difficult. “For possessing you, and all that. It's what I said sorry for, you know, before.” When he stuttered out a delirious apology in the bathroom, that is - right before Castiel committed the equivalent of molestation. Then again, he's the last person with the right to judge Castiel, he's done worse things. He didn't apologize for doing any of them.

Castiel nods slightly to him, then stands there awkwardly like he isn't sure if he wants to say something or leave. There's a thousand things they need to talk about, urgent and very important topics - like his entire existence, maybe the question of whether his mind is even stable; but Lucifer doesn't actually want to discuss it. There's multiple emotions responsible for this, but the easiest way he could describe them as is _uncomfortable_. And intrusive, like he'd be describing something too personal. Raw.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “Did you want anything else?” 

Castiel looks at him from the side. His mind turns a cautious grey color, tinged with that forest green it shifts to every time the seraph thinks of Dean. “I thought it would be a good idea if you spoke to Dean. To reassure him. He's not handling this very well.”

'This' probably being the way Lucifer left the library. His not-Sam way of talking he intentionally chose, and he's not even sure why, sabotaging the chance he had with his older brother. Dean stayed inside for a little while before he heard him close the front door behind himself. He could still see him if he stretched out his sight, but he doesn't want to know what Dean thinks of him.

' _I'm not handling this very well either_ ,' he wants to say; talk to Cas because the seraph could tell him what to do, and he wouldn't have to figure it out himself. He wishes either Dean or Cas could help him out of this crap, but he's not asking for help. He's not.

“Oh.” He says instead. He gets pissed at himself for this stupid choice of response, so of course it affects what he says next. “I doubt it'd help. Besides, he needs to deal with this, and if I'm there he'll just take it harder.”

Castiel frowns. “He thinks that you don't-”

“I know,” Lucifer cuts in. Could Castiel just leave already? He doesn't want to talk about it, and Castiel is telling him this straight out of the knowledge he took from his head. Dean doesn't think he cares anymore. He cares so much he could cry (and he did, a bit.) But Dean wants Sam, _just_ Sam, like he was before. The next part is poisonous and bitter when it comes out of his mouth. “But it's not like I have a 'Sam-only' setting. He can deal.” 

Castiel gives him a long stare, pondering whether to call him out on his bullshit. Because that's what it is, Lucifer knows full well that he's full of crap and what he said makes no sense at all; but the seraph didn't come here to argue or lecture him - he came here to apologize. He doesn't want to pick a fight with him. 

“How is...” He starts slowly, moving away from the subject Lucifer might actually blow up about and bringing them back to his identity situation. “How is your soul? And your grace? Are they... stable?”

Lucifer frowns, even though he knows what Castiel means full well. He's just stalling. “Define stable.”

Castiel is getting frustrated, but he hides it well under all the caution. “Did they meld together? Are they balanced or is there a risk of...” He trails off, searching for words. Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “I'm pretty sure I'm not about to fall apart or die, no.”

Castiel closes his mouth and straightens. “I suppose that's good.” He comments awkwardly, uncertain. 

_Is it?_ It just means he's likely stuck the way he is now. It means he's never going to be Dean's little brother again, and he can't go back to being... well, nobody really. Lucifer was an angel of Heaven once, but then he fell and he couldn't exactly have life goals down in the Cage. The only one he had was the Apocalypse and that's scrapped now. He doesn't know what to do.

The one thing he could strive for right now is revenge for this, but Father left. Just remembering it makes bitterness rise up his throat again.

Castiel shifts a little closer now, uncomfortable at the prolonged silence. He still has questions. “Will you stay this way? I mean, are you going to try and go back, or will yo-”

“Do you think,” Lucifer cuts him off sharply. “There's an actual chance I _can_? Because I can't see it happening.”

Castiel trips over what he wanted to say. “I'm sure we can figure out a solution if we can't... split you.” The young seraph stresses, his Light twisting faster in frustration , inadvertently pissing off the archangel even further. 

It's not _fair_ to him per se, but Lucifer is angry. He's angry when he feels sad, when he's tired of being alone, or when he doesn't know what to feel and his fury is a safe harbour to hide behind.

“The bunker has many spells, we have different options.” Castiel goes on hopefully.

He doesn't want to snap at Castiel, who came here asking polite questions like whether or not he wants to subject himself to somehow _splitting_ because he knows he can't make the archangel do anything.

But what goes unsaid between them hurts him. It hurts the parts of him that aren't Lucifer and aren't Sam, some weird amalgamation their edges are slowly melting into. The fact that they don't care what happens to Lucifer, they just want to pluck back Sam's soul. He has no doubt whatsoever that they would tie him down and scrub away the archangel with knives if they could, erase him bit by bit without any hesitation, because if it happened to Dean, Sam would do the same in a heartbeat. 

But he's there, listening to this, imagining what would happen; his grace, his fundamental Light being cut away so he can just be Sam again, so he can be something small and insignificant and weak. The pain he's being spared from right now returning, the perpetual pull of his self-inflicted injuries.

Sam's overwhelming fear of weakness, his thirst for power he forces himself to bury and never acknowledge. The need for control he doesn't show Dean, unless Dean is far, far away and isn't there to see him succumb, entangling with the archangel's nigh-absolute powers. Oh, his wretched _selfishness_.

His - whoever he is right now, LuciferSam as an entity - budding, slowly emerging survival instinct, because he doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to be erased, like one of those evil cartoon clones you see on television that decides it'll take over its creator's life instead of rolling over and allowing its own destruction. He doesn't want to be human. He doesn't want to be an evil asshole either.

The duality of his own identity is screwing with him in ways he never thought were possible before.

He's ashamed. His thoughts feel dirty, selfish, something he shouldn't be considering. He can't tell this to Castiel, he absolutely can't say it to Dean.

Castiel is in front of him, he must have moved closer at some point but Lucifer didn't notice, and now he's staring at him with his earlier frustration almost gone. “Sam? Can you tell me what's going on?”

Lucifer forces the tremors in his hands to stop, he straightens up again and tries to gauge how long he was spacing out. “Nothing.” He snaps. “Nothing is wrong.”

Castiel seems incredulous, clearly having expected an actual answer. The statement is just so ridiculous. Everything is wrong in every bloody way it can be.

Lucifer doesn't want him going back to his previous line of questioning. He can't make a decision about it. “Get out.” He says sharply.

Castiel is so stupidly confused he doesn't understand it. After all, Lucifer is so conveniently coherent right now, they should discuss important shit. “We need to talk about what our next step will-”

“I said _get out_.” Lucifer growls at him, his grace flashing in warning and making Castiel flinch back. Christ, but he _doesn't want_ the dorky seraph to flinch away from him.

Castiel already makes the decision he'll try again later and leaves, barely muttering a goodbye.

*

He gets up and out of his room much later, padding down the hall in socks and swerving to the library, which has suddenly become the center of everything going on these past days. Dean isn't there, but he could hear him frantically moving around for hours, and he wants to see what Dean did.

The books kept here, on the shelves lining the room circled with stone pillars include some limited lore on angels, and it appears Dean scrambled together everything it had and dumped it on the table, where he opened and marked everything pertaining to angelic grace. If Sam turns his head, he can see there's thick tomes even in the war room. If it wasn't for Dean's reasoning, he'd be proud of the determined researching the hunter had been doing.

He steps closer to the table and extends a hand to turn the book towards himself, skimming over the page. There's nothing useful on it, just the characteristics of angel grace. Lucifer doubts the men of letters could scrounge up anything serious about archangels, what with just two of them there instead of either locked away or missing; and their grace vastly differed from lesser angels. They were made before Heaven existed, so their light was never dependent on their connection to their home - and the sheer amount of power they wielded was hard to wrap one's head around.

He sighs and his eyes close shut as to not see the useless results of Dean's actions, even though he doesn't need eyes for his grace to sense what the table's layout is. He stretches out and spots the glimmer of his brother's soul in the archives. 

He walks past the war room and down towards the dungeon (as Dean calls it, even though the majority of those lower rooms house more written knowledge) and slips through the door labeled 7B.

He finds Dean rifling through a thick file while he leans on a table, harsh lighting making the bags under his eyes look like bruises.

“Hey.” He says quietly, stepping into Dean's peripheral vision. The hunter startles and whips his head around.

“...Hey.” Dean answers, voice echoing around the stone walls. Sam steps closer, but stops when he feels Dean tense, unsure of what his response should be. Castiel must have relayed their conversation, and probably didn't sugarcoat a whole lot. “What are you doing?” 

Dean seems confused at the question, as if he didn't expect Lucifer to ask something so normal. Not that it is, judging by the file title he can read with a quick glance at Dean's hands. It's a study on human souls.

“Uh, I figured I should get to it.” Dean says, shrugging off discomfort. “Like we say. Get on the case.”

“Dean, there's never been a case like this.”

Dean frowns, holding onto something in his mind that Lucifer can't see but knows is a small flame of hope he's continuously stomping on. It makes him feel the strangest mix of bitterness and petty satisfaction, knowing he's probably going to see it flame out.

“There has.” Dean grabs a file off the table and holds it out towards Lucifer, who slowly takes it from him. “See? 'Fusion of minds'. There's more like that, it's happened before!”

The archangel looks dubiously at the paper, scanning the text. He feels sick reading it. Long descriptions of horrifying stuff from entwining and melding human souls to souls forced to share a body. What a merged consciousness looks like, two lifetimes crammed into a too-young mind. He starts feeling genuinely nauseous. 

“Uh...” He clears his throat, but a shiver goes up his spine. “There's no grace involved. And most of these cases either went insane or lost their memory.”

Dean tears the papers from his hands and flips a few pages before pushing it back. Lucifer narrows his eyes at him, but he goes along with it for now. 

“There.” Dean points. “Getting them apart. We can put a spell together with the lore we have on vessels. We always find a way; this is no different.”

Lucifer resists the urge to swallow, knowing Dean would hear it. He knows there's no reversing this. There's no pulling his melted soul out of the cracks in his grace. And with their strange luck Dean might just manage to cobble together something that could manage to scrape him apart. If his body survived, his mind certainly wouldn't.

It doesn't help that none of the 'get apart and restore' experiments the men of letters tried were really successful. He closes the file so he doesn't have to look at the proof of souls so torn to ribbons not even Heaven could fix them.

“Dean...” He starts, but he doesn't bloody know what to say. He doesn't want to crush his hope, but Dean won't accept this situation even if he shows him gentleness (that he doesn't have anymore, he's sure.)

“There's no fixing me.” He says quietly, and Dean just stands there blankly, surrounded by scattered files and books. Sam looks him in the eyes, and he thinks maybe the hopelessness he feels, different from Dean's, is showing on his ageless face. “This isn't one of those things we just get through. You can't make a nifty spell and everything will go back to normal.” His voice cracks towards the end, towards _normal_. He's saying this to Dean, his terribly human older brother who's been raised to hate everything that isn't like him.

Dean looks so fucking _fragile_. “Sam.” The name drops down from his mouth, quiet and asking for something he can't give. He does and doesn't want to and it's tearing him apart.

He takes a step back and pulls his mask back on. “Look, I'm... it's great you're trying. You could've grabbed the closest angel blade, but you didn't.” He looks away and takes a step towards the exit to leave. “But you need to face facts. You can't fix this.”

He doesn't give Dean time to reply before he walks away. 

He's exhausted, but sleep wouldn't help him, wouldn't get rid of this soul deep tiredness he's been feeling for years and has hit in full force. He couldn't sleep anyway - angels didn't own bodies to get tired, only rested their grace.

Lucifer takes a deep breath and pushes his anxiety down. He focuses on things that don't hurt as much, not in this way. His anger has always been his first choice when it came to numbing his pain, always right beneath the surface as if waiting for him to remember what he's pissed at. He ignores the sickness and bitter taste it comes with.

This is easier. 

  
Dean and him don't talk much over the next two days, and neither does Castiel. His brother is sleeping again, reluctantly catching up on the days he lost while he waited. 

Sam rotates between being in the bunker, wandering around while avoiding the others or flying up to the roof and thinking, trying to get away from the others while still staying near. It's sheer stubbornness that helps him avoid the questions those two want to pepper him with, and the fact that Dean also avoids contact with him - because he looks at him and he thinks 'Lucifer' and he can almost hear it - in favour of speaking with Cas in hushed tones or researching also helps him get away with it.

Lucifer doesn't ask Dean anything, and he answers his careful questions in short, clipped tones that effectively drive the hunter away.

He feels like a giant disappointment.

It's hard not to lash out at his brothers when the person he really wants to rage at is absent again. Absent, gone and untraceable just like he has been before.

He used him like the loyal soldier he made himself to be and then took off again. Lucifer needs something to take out his fury on, wants to finally bleed out all the tears constantly hidden where the others can't see, but instead everything just settles in his lungs like accumulating sludge, weighing him down. 

His chest hurts even when he loosens his hold on his vessel, either because of anxiety or because his mangled soul aches the way insides do after a surgery.

Punching his sturdier surroundings hardly helps it.

It's just as hard to fight the guilt grinding at his soul. It was so much easier not to feel remorse for his actions when he was just Lucifer - that all burned away with the Mark, leaving bloodlust and cruelty. He's never before regretted warring his family, or killing his brothers and sisters like bugs under a flyswatter that never misses (except Gabriel. He will always regret killing Gabriel.)

He doesn't know what to do with this guilt. Most of all he wants to drown it in something.

  
He's sitting at the library's table, reading a book about the history of werewolf packs (it's rather interesting, even if it's hard to focus) when Dean quietly sits down in front of him with a mug of coffee. Right, it's morning again.

Dean greets him in a low, rough voice. He's hesitant whenever he wants to talk, and Lucifer knows he's still quietly searching for a spell or a concept that could save his little brother, looking over books while Cas looks helplessly on, wishing to help but knowing how futile it all is.

His human brother's eyes are always intense and searching, looking for Sam and trying to find out what this new, unwanted person is like. He can't see past the spite and sarcasm Lucifer equips his sentences with, but given that he isn't confronting him or yelling, Castiel told him about his dive into the archangel's head. It pisses him off, but he's kind of grateful Dean doesn't think he hates him now because he doesn't know how to put it into words. At least he dodged that conversation.

Dean sighs today, and Lucifer has a feeling this conversation will be heavier and more tedious than the usual careful prods or useless questions like ' _why do you take so many showers?'_

“Why do you stay here?” Dean asks.

Sam looks up from his book. He does spend most of his time here, except when he needs some privacy, far enough so they can't follow him - or up on the roof and staring at the sky, but they know not to bother him when he does it.

“I live here.” He says simply. It's easier than saying 'I don't know where to go', or 'I don't want to be alone.' Those are hard answers he doesn't enjoy considering.

Dean shakes his head. “I'm pretty sure you could live anywhere. You're not just here for the reading material.”

He exhales through his nose. “I could. I wouldn't have stayed here if _this_ hadn't happened. I mean, Sam would have, Lucifer definitely not.”

After the first bout of confused frustration he experienced when he tried to talk about his past selves both in first person, he settled on talking about them as different people, however weird it felt. 

Dean stays quiet for a while, so he looks back down and keeps reading about a werewolf pack initiation ritual from the eighteenth century. 

“What would you have done? If this didn't happen.”

Lucifer suddenly gets what Dean is asking. He's trying to gauge whether _this_ (what they call it now, because nobody wants to say it out loud, wholly) was worth it. If this saved the world or if it's just Chuck screwing with them for his own amusement.

He doesn't know what he wants Dean to think. But he's trying to be more honest, so he takes a minute to think and answer.

“If he bailed like this, I'd be pissed off. I am pissed off, royally, but I'm not gonna go and kill people because of it. But I probably would have.” He keeps looking at the book. “Revenge, I guess. If I can't hurt him, I'd go for what he's fond of.”

He doesn't know exactly how he would go about it, but 'as much destruction as possible' seems like the plan he might go along with.

“What's stopping you?” Dean asks quietly.

The hand Sam lifted to turn the page freezes. Why not? He could get rid of that constant pent up anger. He could properly vent on some unsuspecting souls. But he's pretty sure he wouldn't want to live with himself afterwards.

“I don't want more lives on my conscience.” Sam answers. Dean is staring at him, and he doesn't want to be evaluated, so he picks up the book and walks to his room to read in silence. 

Dean doesn't like coming to his room, because he doesn't like the cold. He has privacy.

  
He reads, slowly losing himself in the pages as the book comes to an end and he's forced back into reality. The tome kept him occupied for a few hours, and he can sense Dean left the bunker at some point and hasn't come back yet. He can't feel Castiel either, and he's surprised they left him alone in the bunker.

He stands up and stretches, taking a moment to feel the movements of his tendons and joints and missing the way they popped when he used to do this.

With a sigh, he steps out and strolls toward the bathroom. He restored it a few days ago and neither Dean nor Castiel mentioned it. Lucifer ignored the discomfort Dean showed at the use of grace.

He locks the door behind himself and slowly takes off his jeans and shirt, doing everything manually, indulging in something as utterly human as a bathroom routine. 

Sam doesn't inspect his face (there is no need to memorize it, he knows what Dean sees whenever he walks from behind a corner), but quickly jumps into the shower to turn on the hot water.

The water pressure truly is great, nothing like the flimsy motel. It's wonderful standing under the spray and letting his mind run - as long as he wants, since the bunker is empty.

He imagines the warm water washing away every ounce of sulfur and ash he can remember on his skin, the smell of soap purging the stink of brimstone that had festered in his nonexistent pores for centuries.

Lucifer leans his head back so that the water weighs down his hair until it tickles down his shoulder blades. He opens his mouth and imagines the spray is pouring straight down and through his vessel, washing away the tension from his lungs and cleansing away the taint he logically knows isn't there anymore.

He thinks of his siblings a lot, of what times were like millions of years ago. It's reminiscent of his centuries in the cage, but he can't help doing it.

He lets go of his grief only in these moments. Here, the thrumming of the shower drowns out any noises he doesn't want the others to hear, and his tears mix so quickly they don't have time to paint tracks across his skin before they've gone down the drain.

Six days after _it_ happened, and two days since he showed up at the bunker again, he sneaks out the door and puts on his running gear.

It makes him feel a bit ridiculous, and the tighter clothes just accentuate the fact that he's lost enough muscle to fit into the skinny category of humans - something none of them actually brought up yet, mainly because they focus on his face far more and because they just don't know why it happened and Dad isn't here to explain anything.

But this is something he enjoyed doing just two weeks ago. Sam ran almost every morning, getting up before Dean to circle over the path running through the forest and winding back at the bunker. And stopping every activity that he used to do feels shattering to the point where he gets overwhelmed and starts panicking again, so he eases his feet into running shoes and starts with a light jog.

The brisk morning air feels nice, the sky still purplish and gray before sunrise, but he realizes very quickly that this is nothing like he remembers. There is no chill to beat, no warming up, no getting out of breath. Nothing human about the way his cold, cold muscles move without ever tiring. There's no physical exercise in this, no release, just automatic movement that seems painfully slow to him now.

He still keeps at it, listening instead to the birds greeting him, curious about his grace or warning others about his relatively quiet presence; looks at the tiny lights of voles and mice hiding under leaves and dirt. He simply observes the beautiful, complex harmony Nature operates in and marvels, because this at least is something that will never get old.

Every pulse of life, every tiny heart beating, insect wings buzzing, melding into a chaotic orchestra playing for him while he's more hidden doing this than he ever was before. It reminds him again of another reason he hates humans, but he's so genuinely scared to really mull over it that he'd rather discuss the quality of worms with one of the birds tailing him while they loudly proclaim about how bright he is. 

Sometimes he really sees how animals can be smarter than humans, simply because they see more.

He puts on his normal clothes as soon as he returns and looks at his running stuff one last time before he comes to the conclusion that he'll never run for sport again. But he liked the nature, he's loved it since Dad started on it, and he's sure he'll go out and watch it again.

  
A day later - altogether a week of barely speaking, mounting tension putting them all on edge, Dean grilling Castiel on his grace even though the seraph can't tell him anything new, of Lucifer trying to figure out what to do with his life while avoiding everyone either on the roof or in his room, he sits behind a laptop and searches.

Then he walks over to Dean, sitting at the glowing map-table in the war room, and wordlessly sets the laptop down in front of him.

“I found a hunt.” He says, and Dean stares at the screen for a while, digesting what Sam just said.

Dean blinks and finally moves to scroll down the internet page. “You... you found a hunt.” He repeats. Then he looks over at the archangel standing rigidly beside the table. “You want to hunt?”

Sam shrugs. “Don't know what else to do.”

Dean looks back at the page, so Sam takes this cue to continue, rambling off his prepared explanation. “I'd wager it's vampires. Three bodies found in ditches, at night, drained of blood with odd bite marks on their necks.”

The human looks at the general information. It's a town in Oklahoma, which means a four hour drive at least. Four, maybe five hours in the impala, sitting beside each other with nothing to do but listen to music and talk. And after that, work together like they used to, except Lucifer isn't sure how capable he is of teamwork.

It would probably be a nightmare.

But it's the closest hunt he could find in an hour, and as it turns out grace can't help search the internet, since what it does usually is fry all technology. He's been doing a lot of things the human way lately, especially in front of Dean (though the hunter probably thinks the opposite).

Dean sighs and covers his mouth with his hand like he does when he's conflicted and doesn't know what to do. His soul is telling Lucifer a lot on its own though, murmuring his worries and spinning in odd, creative somersaults only stress can cause.

“Uh,” He starts, still reading the page even though Sam has seen his eyes trace over the same row twice now. “How do we go about it? I mean, like- like we used to, or...?”

Sam shrugs again. “I guess, man. Just try and get back into the fold. We can't stay cooped up here forever or we'll start growing fungus on our asses.”

Dean blinks in utter befuddlement, which isn't nearly as refreshing as it should be, given how often he makes that expression. “Uh, okay. Right.” He takes a long breath, an action that fills the silence his rapid decision making would otherwise warrant. “Do we pack and go? We can get there before evening.”

Sam is taken aback just a little bit, but he hides it rather well. “So you wanna go? On a hunt with me?” He mentally slaps himself for sounding like an eager kid seeking his big brother's approval. He's not, but Dean somehow makes him feel like a child looking up to his perfect idol, even though Sam is a fourteen billion years-old archangel that can look down on this human with thousands of eyes.

That thought suddenly reminds him that he no longer knows what his True form looks like. He doesn't, because of his stubborn fear of manifesting and actually, finally looking at all the blackened, dull feathers covering ravaged bleeding grace, hanging off of rotten flesh, capable only of flimsy flight. Blink the half of his eyes that isn't scratched out, but filled with so much hellfire the blue isn't there anymore (well, he knows they're blue again now, but he can't be sure about anything else).

Knowing it would add finality to what's changed to the extent he isn't ready to face. That visage fueled his human nightmares for years, but for it to be his own... and there he is getting nauseous again.

He shakes himself when he realizes how far his mind strayed from the present conversation, and Dean is staring at him and he definitely didn't hear Dean's answer to his blurted questions because he was thinking about his vanity. He swallows.

“Could, ah, could you repeat that? I didn't catch it.” He says, horribly pitiful.

Dean frowns, offended like he's screwing with him and so bloody hurt and _what did he say?_ Dean looks like he wants to pummel his face or go away and break down. “I said... sure. Yeah, I'm up for it.”

Sam knows his first answer was different, he can see how Dean's soul sags, like he missed something incredibly important. Something Dean had wanted to say, tried hard to say, and he didn't hear it. He wants to scream, pull the knowledge out of Dean's noggin, go back in time. But that's it, moment missed.  
He was so much like Dean's _Sammy_ for just a few seconds and he blew it.  
  
He's fucking _shaking_ , and Dean just stands up without looking at him and turns around to get his bag ready. 

Sam's eyes are burning.

He follows Dean to the car like a ghost the hunter won't acknowledge, wishing he would just grab something iron and make him disappear for a few precious, stress-free moments. Dean pulls the keys out of his pocket and starts his beloved baby, pretending Lucifer isn't there while the latter battles between doing the same and trying to meld into his seat.

He ends up sitting like a tense string, head turned to the glass, stubbornly avoiding his own piercing eyes in the impala's rearview mirror.

A few minutes after Dean swerves out of the driveway, he turns on his ac/dc tape and fixes his attention to the road.

Lucifer feels his lungs filling up with something that sizzles and blisters like acid, so he closes his eyes and loosens his hold on his vessel again. His grace retreats a little from his limbs, his precise motor control slipping away as his light pools behind his eyes, inside his skull.

He stills, and he knows he looks either dead or asleep, but Dean doesn't even comment. Lucifer lets his mind slip away into the mindset he was in for hundreds of imprisonment years, something he never did topside since he got back, no matter how bored he was.

Time melts together and passes him like he's observing from some different timestream, and his vessel's eyes droop down in their sockets, under his eyelids where Dean can't see them. 

His mind goes in the weirdest directions, memories mashed together making appearances and his soul pulsing much slower, vibrating in low, lazy tones in tandem with the orchestra of his True voice.

He waits, letting his thoughts slow until Dean suddenly stops the music and parks near a gas station. “Pit stop.” He says, and Lucifer is vacuum sucked back into the present. His lungs expand with air for the first time in hours, and the constricting feeling from before is back, lessened only marginally.

He twitches and flexes his fingers and looks at Dean, who's trying his best not to look disturbed and turns away from him while he unbuckles and opens the door. “I'll be right back.” Dean mumbles, not giving him any time to reply before he escapes outside and shuts the door behind himself.

Dean walks away from the car as fast as he can without making it blatantly obvious he's trying to get away from Lucifer. Which is only half understandable, since the archangel hasn't said a word the entire ride, for the last two hours. Unlike every other time they were on the road and one of them had to take a leak, Dean doesn't just step out of the car, but makes the journey to the public toilets on the side of the gas station.

Lucifer sighs and leans back in the seat. The car is small, and his long legs are cramped even with the maximum space the impala allows. It's confining and uncomfortable. He's always enjoyed free, open spaces - one thing his Father allowed the Cage to hold an illusion of, being a small pocket dimension regardless of its emptiness - and the impala is making him feel trapped, the feeling of home buried under his mild claustrophobia.

He impatiently taps his leg, trying to fill the muffled silence until Dean comes back. It doesn't take long before he wordlessly gets in and starts the car again.

It's clear Lucifer's zoning out has weirded him out and he's still trying to decide whether he fell into some angelic sleep (which isn't a thing) or if he left his vessel. So after a few moments, he makes the choice not to drift away again, even if the ride is torturous.

But Dean doesn't turn on the music, gathering his courage to start a conversation, which Sam doesn't want just yet, so after a while and the silence slowly becomes unbearable, Lucifer reaches his right hand down into the drawer thing Dean's car has and pulls his pair of wired earbuds from the bunker's bedroom, along with his mp3 player he bought years ago.

It all looks very smooth, but Dean tends to be observant in just the wrong moments, so he probably notices the quick summoning. He sticks the earbuds in anyway and skims over the list until he finds a playlist he sort of thinks he'll like. He isn't sure what he likes yet.

Dean doesn't comment on it either, and Lucifer gets lost in the music while watching the bland scenery go by.

  
They finally get there after almost three more hours, during which he diligently burned through all his alternate rock, pop and limited supply of lo-fi and trap music he rarely listened to. He pulls them off when he sees they've arrived.

Dean leans back, looking into the scant trees beside the street he parked in. “We have to check the morgue first, see if it's vamps for sure. I'm going in the back, I need to put my fed suit on.”

Then he gets out and pulls his duffle out from the back seat. He disappears around a corner, leaving Lucifer still in the passenger seat again. He sits for a while, then oh so slowly gets out of the little space Dean's car provides.

He blinks around, taking in his surroundings, spotting the hospital and morgue Dean must have been talking about. It's afternoon, but the sun beats down on them, making the impala's glossy black surface heat up.

Just then, Dean appears back in his cheap black suit and white dress shirt, smoothing down rumpled edges. He looks Lucifer up and down. “I don't know if you can come with,” He says slowly, his tone suggesting he forgot about what happened in the war room, even though he definitely didn't. “You look too young to pass as FBI.”

There's a tightness in his chest at the thought that whatever changed his body (he doesn't have an explanation he's sure of yet, but he has a few theories) is interfering with more than just Dean's perception of him.

Lucifer bites his lips, thinking. Then he gets an idea, something not thought through properly like it definetly should be.

He's good at weaving illusions. When you get right down to it, it's just bending light until it tricks what human eyes perceive; and light has always been his forte, just like deception.

He concentrates and looks down at his hands as calloused, tanned skin replaces the pale, taut surface that otherwise stretches over his flesh while it seems to grow older; his hair pulls back from his forehead and shortens, his jaw clicks back to how it used to be and his eyes sink into their rounded shape while they shift in color. With a quick, precise thought, his clothes change to the same outfit his brother is wearing, fitting over wide shoulders he doesn't really have anymore.

Then he looks at Dean, trying to contort his old face into a smile. “There,” He says lightly, and his voice changes color while he's speaking. “We can go together now.”

Dean is staring at him, tense as a log, his green eyes open impossibly wide while his soul folds into creases it shouldn't be able to. Lucifer shifts in awkwardness and turns around, walking to the morgue and tilting his head towards it so that Dean would come with.

The hunter stumbles after Lucifer like he dazed him. The archangel doesn't look back at him, but he does wish Dean would have a reaction. He knows how much his new face bothers him, how he flinches whenever he scrunches it up in snark. He wants Dean to see he's not that different, and he's far better at actions than he is at wording his emotions.

Sam enters the morgue and walks to the nearest doctor, pulling out his old badge and introducing himself like he usually does, then introducing his partner because Dean is stuck in complete silence while his soul swirls like a blizzard. He needs to ask to look at the bodies too, since Dean acts like a mute, and the doctor kindly shows them to the cooling chambers.

It's exactly like old times, just another hunt.

Something slick and disturbing coils around his heart at that thought, and he stubbornly breathes in until it stops suffocating him.

Dean pulls himself together once the pale body of a woman in her thirties is in front of them, laying on the metal slab of her drawer. Lucifer tilts his head at the skin that sags to the sides of her deathly pale face, the pink scratches that litter the naked arms that used to be covered in blood, the undersides of her limbs purplish and yellow. Her bared throat is torn open, the puckered skin sucked of the redness.

The doctor is rushing to explain the autopsy, and Lucifer doesn't like the way he babbles about what he can't wrap his head around.

“There wasn't enough blood left for livor mortis to settle like it usually does! I've never seen an animal that could do that, and the bite doesn't match anything we have here,” he says, clearly distressed. “It doesn't make any sense, agents.”

Sam can see it's a vampire bite, so he hopes this wraps up as soon as possible. Dean is as pale as the corpse in front of them, and he looks like he's about to throw up. The doctor thinks he must be bothered by the dead body, so he offers a sympathetic look. Dean just stares at him with empty eyes.

Lucifer forces a smile and thanks the confused human before gracefully leaving the building, eerily silent Dean in tow. He turns back to him once they're outside. “So that's definitely a bloodsucker. I'm thinking we go check out the outskirts, see if there's any barns for-”

“Drop it.” Dean cuts him off, his voice cold and shaky.

Sam blinks, and before he can ask what Dean means, the hunter's face twists into something between a cry and a snarl. “I said fucking _drop it_ , Lucifer!”

His insides freeze, and he suddenly realizes Dean had never called him that before. He avoided calling him by a name like the plague ever since that first coherent conversation in the library. 

Dean is breathing heavily, anguished wet eyes mapping Sam's face. His soul is a dark thunder cloud.

Lucifer can't stop staring back, feeling like his lungs are slowly collapsing. “I thought... you wanted me to be Sam.” He stutters out. Dean breaks.

“ _Would you just go back to what you look like!!_ ” He screams, shutting his mossy green eyes like Sam's face is burning them. Lucifer cuts off the grace that powers his glamour until it flickers away like a busted lightbulb. His suit crumples and hangs on his lean frame until he switches it back for his dark jeans and jacket.

“Okay.” He says quietly, trying and failing to understand. This isn't going like he thought it would at all.

Dean takes a shaky breath and slowly opens his eyes again. “I don't... _want_ Sam because of what he looks like, you stupid idiot.” He snaps quietly and Lucifer feels a twinge of anger at the disrespectful words. It's nothing against the pressing weight of misery, though.

“But... this bothers you.” Lucifer says, scratching his fingers over the line of his smoothed over face, without stubble or the prominent dimples that only show when he smiles too widely. They don't compliment this visage at all, and he knows Dean hates it.

Dean clenches his jaw. “What _bothers_ me is the way you act,” he spits, “How you talk. How you move. Your fucked up expressions.” He growls, stepping closer to Lucifer until he could touch him. Lucifer takes a step back.

Dean suddenly looses that furious edge and crumples. “You didn't help. You're just reminding me of what I lost.”

Then he turns around and walks away just like Lucifer when he says what he wanted to, or doesn't know how to keep the conversation going. When he can't bear more heartbreak. 

“I'm sorry.” He whispers, but Dean is too far away to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmph, angst. Delicious to write.
> 
> Random Long Analysis:  
> Lucifer never asks for help or discusses his feelings, so he fights emotional hurt and sadness with feelings that don't allow vulnerability. He hides behind sarcasm, anger and snark.  
> He's afraid of rejection so much that he sabotages his chances of acceptance and a relationship with Dean, so that it feels as if he was the one rejecting them, because the alternative would hurt. Self-sabotage is a trope here. This makes him bloody hard to coexist with.  
> He has changed, but he's too stubborn to accept those changes or admit that he wants to, so he buries that so deeply he starts believing that he won't and can't change at all. He rolls it all into a messy burrito of daddy issues, rebellion and angst. He thinks accepting everything Sam about himself (and it's a lot more than what we've seen until now) would uncover even more pain.  
> He does have much darker sides, capable of extreme cruelty and sadism, but these are a bit more hidden for now. They're all there, but Sam's soul adds moral consequences to his actions that he didn't experience before. He's a lot about 'one step forward, two steps back' and it'll annoy the crap out of everyone.


	7. It's Like Quicksand

Dean gets into the impala, but he doesn't return to the bunker. Regardless of how screwed up his personal life is, there are vampires killing civilians in this town and it's his responsibility to hunt them down, so he drives to the nearest crappy motel.

Lucifer is screwing with him like a cat with its toy. Dean really tried, after days of rocky conversations, to connect. And yet every chance he tries to give his messed up brother, he throws it away. God, if only the archangel's face didn't look so stupidly sincere. If only he didn't catch hurt and confused glances when he thought Dean was too dumb to notice them.

He wouldn't have tried if Castiel hadn't sat him down and conveniently described how much Sam still cares about him; but it's hard to remember it when Lucifer's narrowed eyes stare him down with plastic confidence and he gets snark thrown at him every time he wants to have a conversation. Lucifer never finishes it either; he spews out a couple glib sentences, and the moment Dean touches a sore spot (he hasn't yet found a spot that isn't sore) he bails.

They're standing in place, and nothing is improving. Actually, after today they may as well have taken a few big steps back.

It was so _difficult_ , watching him wear Sam's old face. Everything from the suit to his eyes reminded him of the last time, seven years ago, when he spoke to Lucifer while the bastard was possessing Sam, wearing a polyester white suit and vomiting out a sob story about how his dad didn't love him back.

But it wasn't the worst thing.

Lucifer uses Sam's voice just slightly differently. His sentences are flowy and smooth like Sam's aren't, like he's a professional speaker, crisp and polite. And he sees it on Sam's face, how different his expressions are. 

It's perverse, knowing what kind of deceiving, sadistic person stares from behing those wide eyes, set on a time-fluid face; capable of looking so much like the innocent kid from college Dean secretly checked up on, and like a twenty-something ruthless predator the very next moment. The twisted thing is that he _is_ that kid, at least somewhat.

Sam is in there, Dean doesn't doubt that. But it's like everything of his little brother is diluted and dissolved into the toxic acid of the fallen angel. Like the parts that are Winchester are what's keeping him from going out and destroying the world they've saved together.

The first time Lucifer acted absolutely nothing like Sam, Dean went and got drunk. Now, he swallows it all and focuses on the hunt.

He walks to the motel, carrying his bag over his shoulder and steps to the receptionist, paying for a room on autopilot while he goes over his machete and carcass blood collection in his mind, trying to occupy his thoughts. It's only when he steps into the room that he realizes he got his usual. Two queens.

He ignores the second bed while he changes back into his flannel shirt and washed out jeans. Then he starts cleaning his gun, even though he knows he won't need it, not for vampires.

  
Someone softly knocks at his door an hour later, and Dean knows exactly who it is. But he waits, frozen on the bed until he hears Lucifer's clear, melodic voice coming from the other side. “Dean?”

He doesn't answer, wanting to see if he has anything to say. He does. “Dean. Please, can we talk?”

There's a quiet shuffle and Lucifer leans closer to the door. “I'm sorry.”

Dean lets out a shaky breath. He's never apologized before, but Dean just bounced back to questioning his every motive. Still, he stands up and walks over on heavy feet, turns the key and swings the door open.

Lucifer is there, looking like himself, but more miserable. It makes him look like a teenager, and Dean has to bite his lips to focus on something other than that.

Sam - _Lucifer_ , it's not Sam - swallows nervously. “Look... can we talk. I get... that it was wrong. I shouldn't have done that.” Yeah, it's so frickin obvious how hard it is to get those words out. 

Dean inhales. Then again for good measure, before he steps aside so the archangel can slither past him into his mediocre motel room.

He closes the door and follows his devil of a brother, who has sat himself down on the edge of the bed that would actually be Sam's, opposite of Dean's. Dean sits where they can look at each other in tense silence.

Sam still looks crushed, the picture of remorse. Dean wonders how honest it is.

“I didn't do that to mess with you.” He says quietly. “I just... I wanted you to see...” His breathing is shaky. Is it really that hard to open up? Dean keeps silent while he watches Sam struggle with his own mouth. 

His grey eyes are glassy. Out of everything, Dean misses Sam's sunflower eyes the most, the light brown inner circle that faded out into a greenish blue hue, how his eye color changed depending on the lighting. Lucifer's eyes are almost colourless, a mix of warm and cold grey Dean doesn't like.

“That I'm not that different. That I'm- I'm still Sam.” The edges of his lips contort, and he blinks. Dean wants to break down too, honestly. But he won't, not in front of Lucifer.

“I know you hate what I look like. And how I talk. You hate my sarcasm.” Sam speaks quietly, staring at the edge of the bed, away from Dean. “But I... this is what I _know_. I mean...” He grimaces like a person who's about to cry but is trying their damn hardest not to. “It's what I'm like.”

Dean frowns. “What you're like.” 

Sam makes a small, hopeless noise and shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno, man. This happened, I'm trying to deal with it just like you are.”

Dean goes quiet. The same thought he's had since the day _this_ happened, that has steadily taken root and grown like weed in his brain every time Lucifer made it a point it couldn't be reversed surfaces. His fists clench the sheets.

Sam looks up at him and his eyebrows knit together. Dean suddenly gets that same feeling he used to get with Cas, that he sometimes gets with Lucifer. Like he's a fly under a microscope while they stare at his chest.

If Lucifer is reading his mind right now, he will grab his freshly cleaned gun and put a hole in his ridiculously tall body. Though, Lucifer doesn't flinch when he thinks it, so maybe he's not in his head.

Sam's eyes suddenly widen in surprise. “You're blaming me.”

Dean is so shocked Sam suddenly knows this he forgets to snap at him. Sam's sharp features turn into indignance, going from rejected to furious as fast as flicking on a lamp. “Why are you blaming me?! You think I wanted this?!”

His voice raises in pitch and volume, and his back straightens so he's even taller. As if he wasn't looking down on Dean already.

Dean scowls. If Lucifer rages at him with the power of all his anger issues, the weak human has the stupid right to give him a piece of his mind too.

“You let him do it to you. You gave him the okay, and now you're not even trying to go back to how you were!” He yells. Sam looks like he punched him (Dean is getting to that, even though the chance of him breaking his knuckles is bigger than Sam losing his balance).

“How can you say that?!” Lucifer springs up, Dean right behind him. “You think I could have stopped Dad? He's God, Dean, if you've missed the memo!”

Dean is snarling, but his words are getting desperate. “You nodded!”

Lucifer explodes. There's really no other way to describe how loud he yells and the burst of vivid blue light that spills out of his eyes. _“I didn't know!!”_ There's no way the entire motel didn't hear it. It's a miracle the windows didn't shatter. Dean feels the back of his knees hitting the bed frame. “What, you think we had a silent conversation and I just said I'm fine with him destroying everything I have left?! I didn't agree to have all these memories, to lose my whole bloody identity, and I didn't fucking _ask_ to have a conscience!!”

Dean crashes and hangs onto his last words, too shocked to keep at the shouting match.“That!” He gasps disbelievingly. “ _That's_ what's the problem for you? Finally feeling some regret for being a screwed up asshole?!”

Lucifer deflates right back down into a skinny kid, haunted eyes staring at something Dean can't see. If that's even possible, he seems paler. At this point, Dean will either need sunglasses or deal with snow-blindness. Sam looks like he's made of white marble.

“You're right.” He mumbles. His eyes don't meet Dean's. Whatever he's remembering, Dean isn't a part of it. 

Sam blinks, his expression falling until all that's left is raw self-condemnation and grief. Dean doesn't know what to do, and the sudden silence they've been plunged into disturbs him.

Sam sinks onto the bed and turns to the window so that Dean is stuck looking at his profile, still as a statue. Then Sam suddenly stands up and takes a step forward before he disappears with the telltale whoosh of misplaced air and feathers.

Dean listens to his own shaky intake of breath before he collapses down just like Sam did before he flew away, making the mattress creak.

For once, he's kind of glad Lucifer escaped from the conversation.

The banging on his door makes him flinch, and the manager's voice breaks his silence. “Hey! Is everything alright?”

Dean tries to compose himself. “Uh, yeah! Sorry for the noise, won't happen again!” His voice is still a bit croak-y.

“Good. You were hella loud in there.” The manager pushes away from the door and Dean can hear his steps receding down the hall. He looks outside at the setting sun. Looking for a vampire nest at night is a suicide, so he quickly decides to do it tomorrow, when cleaning out is easiest.

He hopes he can get enough sleep.

*

There's only one abandoned barn in the rather small town, offset by a field and a small patch of trees. The windows are either covered with tarps or borded up, so the interior must be dark. Another check for the vamp-posibility chart.

Dean leans back in his seat. Sam hadn't shown again, or if he did Dean didn't see him. But he really does need backup for this - vampires always live in groups, and even if he's lucky enough for there to be only three or four, it would still be hard to fight all of them if one raises an alarm. He can get one kill in, the others are sure to be a fight.

But he's stubborn when he wants to be, even if it gets his ass in trouble, so Dean equips himself with blood syringes (they really need to make proper darts, but he can never get himself to work on that) and two machetes. Then he ties a strap of fabric around his mouth like an improvised ski mask; something he'd only started doing after his brief experience as a vampire. He doesn't want a repeat of that.

Dean stalks closer, keeping on the grass to avoid any unnecessary sounds, even though he's almost a third of a mile away. He knows exactly how good their hearing is.

When he gets to the barn, he walks around the side to find a crack to look through, carefully listening for sounds before he leans in and peeks through.

There's dried blood stains on the floor from where they probably shared a civilian before someone dragged them away to a ditch on the side of the road, and empty bottles by the side, some of them broken. He counts the still, pale figures over the space, one in a hammock and three others in sleeping bags.

He can't see everything from his position, but he does hope four is all of them. They're sleeping close to each other, so he's 80% sure of that.

He looks closely at the barn door, checking for debris and judging how much they'll creak when he opens them. He steels himself and grips one of his weapons, unhooking the other one enough so it won't fall, but can be pulled into his arms at a moment's notice. Then he walks to the door and starts lifting the hatch.

It takes him about two minutes to open the door without a sound, blocking most of the noonday light with his body and slowly stepping in. He can't afford to close it behind him in case he needs an escape and immediate advantage of the sun.

He steps between two sleeping vampires and lifts his machete. If he had Sam here, each could kill one and take on the other two before they could get their bearings, but it's not as if this plan isn't acceptable. Quick and explosive.

He swings with all his might, and cuts straight through the neck of the male vampire on the floor, the biggest and strongest of them all, taking him out before he could even become a challenge. The thump of metal on wood echoes like a gunshot.

Dean knows they're flinching, rising and quickly becoming a task he was stupid to take on alone, but before he could look at the others he spins on his heel while raising his bloodied machete up and swinging down where the other vampire's neck was.

The young vamp already opened his eyes and started lifting himself up, and Dean's weapon doesn't hit its mark like he wanted, cutting instead deep into the junction of his neck and torso, slicing diagonally towards his spine.

The monster lets out an agonized scream and lukewarm blood starts dripping onto the wooden floor beneath. The others jump up faster than a human ever could, eyes widening and hands flying to their weapons.

Dean turns toward them, momentarily leaving the incapacitated vamp on the floor. He won't get up, not with his arm partially sliced off and a ruined collarbone above a punctured lung. He'll have to wait until his vampirism stiches him up enough to move.

“Hunter,” hisses one of them, a petite, blonde woman, her partner snarling. They know how to fight, and Dean narrows his eyes while one of them jumps to the side to attack him from the back while the skinny male vamp lunges at him from the front.

Dean sidesteps away from them, letting the vampire hit empty air until he can keep them both in his line of sight at the disadvantage of having the barn wall behind himself.

He thinks on his toes, trying to find something to stun them so he can go for the kill. He can see the tarp to his left, and dodges the next attack towards the covered window, yelling as a razor sharp point of a knife slices over his bicep, tearing apart the fabric of his sturdy jacket and the skin underneath. Dean ducks when the female swipes her own blade towards his head and tears at the tarp with all his adrenaline powered strength.

It rips off the top and bright white light spills into the barn. The vampires yell and jump back, hands flying up to cover their sensitive eyes, but Dean is right in front of the window and looking at him stings them. He rushes forward, and with a yell he smoothly beheads the male.

The vamp he cut into before screams in devastation at him and sprints up from the ground, his reassembling arm drooping down at his side and leaving a trail of cold blood. 

Dean lifts his machete, panting hard, and swings at his neck before he could ram into his middle. His head comes off with the ugly crunching of bone, slowing towards the back. Dean can feel the metal catching against bone even as his spare weapon is torn from his waist. He turned his back on the blonde.

The force of it makes him loose his balance, and he stumbles forward as the dead vampire pulls him down with him when Dean doesn't let go of his weapon.

Dean whips his head around, tugging at his machete. The female vampire screams, angry tears filling up her gleaming eyes, and lifts his spare behind her to swing it at him and stick it into his chest. 

Dean gives up on trying to retrieve his weapon and makes a split second decision to roll out of the way and kill her some other way, knowing the situation just turned against him, before she lights up from the inside.

Her furious scream cuts off into gurgling, and her eyes widen before bursting into flame as she falls forward to land dead on the floor beside Dean. The smell of burnt flesh fills Dean's nostrils and he catches the last of the sizzling sound her eyeballs make before a sharp voice cuts into the air.

“Four vamps against you alone, but _sure thing_ , onwards and at 'em! What the hell were you thinking, Dean? There are more dignified ways to die on the job than a suicide mission.”

Dean's eyes trail quickly up over black biker boots, slim jeans and the perpetual nice grey shirt covered by a leather jacket until they stop on Sam's stern, bored face.

“I was doing just fine.” He snaps flatly and pulls himself to his feet, grimacing at the blood sticking to his clothes and hands. Sam leans in and touches him lightly on the shoulder before Dean straightens, and the throbbing cut on Dean's arm tingles and warms until suddenly there's no more pain.

Dean looks at his arm, seeing Lucifer must have fixed his clothes along with his wounds, and looks up at the archangel. Sam doesn't mention it at all, though, and has already started walking towards the open door. “Sure you were,” he calls back teasingly, “Now let's get out before this place starts reeking.”

Dean frowns. “We have to get rid of the bodies first.”

Sam twirls around in place, looking at the dead vampires. “I can torch them.” He gives Dean a meaningful, just shy of mocking look. “ _After_ you get out.”

Dean scowls at nothing in particular and walks out. Another day, he might have insisted on burning them on a pire, but he's tired from last night and his breathing is still shallow from the fighting, aching bones reminding him again that he's not exactly young anymore. Not to mention Lucifer-Sam.

He looks just fine, no trace of the broken archangel he was after Dean called him out. As if it didn't even happen. Christ, Dean really wants to punch him. 

He takes a deep breath and tries very hard to focus on his actions, not Sam's behaviour. He jumped in before Dean got seriously hurt. He healed Dean's arm. He'll torch the bodies. 

He keeps a fast pace back towards the car, hearing the crackle of fire behind him, and the dying down after Sam destroys the vampires and shuts the doors. He catches up to Dean in no time, keeping a few steps behind the hunter.

Dean doesn't want to talk to him, so he wordlessly opens the trunk and wipes off the metal weapons before dropping them in and grabbing a canteen of water and old cleaning towels.

Sam leans on the impala's hood and looks at the drying, splotched red clothes Dean is carefully peeling off. “Want me to fix that?” He asks leisurely.

“No.” Answers Dean, curt and short. “I'll switch them and wipe off, then go back to the motel for my stuff so we can drive back to the bunker.”

“It's in the back seat. We can go back now.”

Dean blinks and leans down to see into the car, then stands up and stares straight at Sam. “I don't want you doing that,” He states. “I'm doing this the normal way, so keep your grace out of my things.”

A strange expression flickers over Sam's face before he's back to being languidly unreadable; an expression he's gotten disturbingly good at. “Okay, man, your call.” Then he turns away and walks to the passenger side to sit while Dean cleans himself up.

When he finishes, he drags on some spare clothes he'll put in the washing machine when he gets home and flops down behind the wheel. Sam stares outside into the scenery.

Dean doesn't want to talk either, so he just starts the car and orients himself back to Lebanon, Kansas. Another long ride.

They drive in silence for almost fifteen minutes before Sam speaks up, dark eyes searching. “Why does it bother you when I use my grace?”

Oh, so many answers to that question. Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel's leather. Sam doesn't get the hint, because being an archangel has made him strangely oblivious to some of the social cues while far too perceptive of things Dean would never notice.

“Is it because of the abilities I had from Azazel?” Sam wonders out loud, inadvertently touching a subject Dean is very sour about. After all, Lucifer sent Yellow-Eyes. Lucifer is the root of all the shit that happened with the apocalypse. He's even the indirect reason their parents are dead. Sam rambles. “'Cause I know you never liked that, and I didn't either, obviously-”

“Lucifer.” Dean cuts in frostily, and the archangel snaps his mouth closed. It's actually pretty satisfying, even if Dean feels nauseous every time he uses that name.

Sometimes, he wants to ask him about the demon blood. What the point of the special children really was, what he told Azazel to do. Whether he told him to kill mom, or if he just said to get the seals open or something. He knows Lucifer feels guilt - winding him up until he spills shouldn't be too hard if Dean really went at it. But he's a little bit afraid of the answers. Of knowing what the person driving around in Baby with him has done to ruin their family.

“So, we're not gonna talk about it?” Lucifer asks cautiously.

Dean works his jaw. “We probably should.” His tone makes it clear he doesn't want to, though. At least that's obvious to the archangel, so he sits back and resumes his intense viewing of the highway. After a while, Dean turns on Led Zeppelin and Sam's chest stops rising with air. Dean keeps his eyes on the road and doesn't say anything.

* * *

Dean doesn't look at him when he parks inside the garage and gets out of the car after four hours with a single pit stop. Lucifer gets out after him, turning so that their eyes don't meet when Dean goes to get his stuff. 

He messed up again, just like he's been doing since his existence started. He's not going to apologise though, especially since he's rather mad at Dean right now, ever since he realized he's been harbouring a belief Lucifer wanted this to happen all along.

But he also screwed up again, like he always does, and by now he should accept the fact that he'll always do something wrong because _he_ is wrong.

He pulls himself out of his emo, angsty thoughts and steels himself. He can figure this out, and maybe this time he won't slip into yelling because he feels like Dean is stripping down his defenses. But it's so easy for his brothers to reach his ever present anger now; it's like the faintest scratch makes his fuse blow, and he bloody knows he needs to deal with this before he says something he can't undo no matter what he does. Or maybe he already did.

'A bloody conscience.'

 _Gabriel_ , Gabriel, Gabriel.

He takes a deep breath and his lungs ache as they move, the constant bottled acid he keeps there moving with every breath. He wants to scream until it bleeds away, but it doesn't help. He tried last night; it did absolutely nothing. Not that he would ever tell Dean that.

His human brother goes to take a quick shower, get the grime and bloody remnants off before going to meticulously clean his machetes, all simply an attempt to keep his mind occupied now that he has nothing to focus on again.

Sam can't stop thinking about what Dean said about grace. 

It's not like the demon blood when he was human - the disgusting, fascinating substance was never truly a part of him. If he wanted to use it, he needed to intake it until he used it up.  
He shakes himself and stops thinking about that. If Sam knew exactly what demon blood was back then, why it strengthened Lucifer's vessels or why he always wanted more, he never would have touched it. *

But his grace is different. It's not just power: it's his limb, entire form, something he was made with and has never been without, excluding his inconsequential time being Sam. Having this power _is_ his normal the way Dean's hands are taken for granted and aren't questioned. He wasn't even aware he was powerful until Father made lesser angels, and he didn't know there could be a living being without grace until Father brought them into existence - Hell, he didn't know something could be both alive and have a physical form, back then.

This is logical, and Dean knows it. It's what he is, and Lucifer needs to understand Dean so he can stop making mistakes that make the hunter look at him _that way_. Because all he's done for so long is make mistakes and he wants to do something right that will earn him validation, or kindness, or any of the things he's yearned for for millennia and never received. He tells himself it's not his fault he tends to turn people against him, that he gets on everyone's nerves or that he can't decide between hating and caring.

He sits at the kitchen table and pretend-reads until Dean has to come in and make himself something to eat. Dean just grunts a greeting, but otherwise doesn't start a conversation. Lucifer waits until he feels like the moment is good, when Dean sits down and starts buttering his bread.

“You didn't answer my question.” He says quietly. Dean usually has a better reaction to his voice if he keeps it gentle.

Dean sets his knife on the table top. “Why are you pushing with this.” He deadpans, not needing a reply, but Lucifer still answers.

“Because I don't understand, man. You can't look at me if I look like I used to, and you tense up if I use grace. I don't know what you want.”

Dean's breathing is louder than it should be, like he's trying his patience. He's not, but it probably does seem that way. His soul is murky. “I said it yesterday already. Whenever you use your mojo I get reminded how inhum-” Dean falters. “How far off the reservation you are.”

 _Why why why_ did Dean have to say that. 

His eidetic memory immediately pulls up the last time Dean used that phrase on him, every detail of it, from his curled lip to his eyebrows twisted in disgust and resentment. His absolute disappointment in Sam's addiction and Sam's righteous fury when Dean locked him away, _just like Michael_ did.

He feels his anger unfurling and simmering inside his veins like a dragon someone poked in the eye with a stick, a feral beast that inspired fear in Sam even before it became his own, too wild for him to control. It comes out when he speaks, like his words are dripping out scaled and red-hot, so hard to keep down because they'll eat him alive otherwise. He thinks it might be guilt, too. Guilt only makes it worse.

“Off the reservation.” He mumbles to himself. The pages of his book are crumbling with frost under his fingers. Dean also doesn't accept him because he isn't human. That's a big thing now as well, apparently, and one he should have predicted; Dean had been raised in the stagnant mindset that non-human means evil, and while Sam has always been willing to see gray areas, Dean stubbornly stuck to his black and white view.

Castiel might be an exception, but Lucifer just doesn't fall into the same bloody basket. Doesn't matter how young the human race is, how ignorant, how ridiculously _dumb_ , Dean just _can't even_.

His grace feels like it's boiling itself. His eyes, too.

“Off the reservation? Dean, I am so far off I don't see your stupid _human reservation_ anymore. Must be the earth's curvature.” He spits out, and Dean almost drops his toast. 

Right, Dean doesn't know what goes on in his mind. He only sees his face twitching like he suffers from hemifacial spasms before he erupts.

Dean is pissed off too now. “ _Why_ do you have to be like that?” He snarls, defeated and desperate and _angry_.

Well, Lucifer is angry too. Mostly at himself, but also at everything around him. “Like what, Dean?” He hisses. He wants to stop so badly he thinks he'll cry. “Myself? Do you want me to be quiet so you can pretend I'm not?”

Dean grips the table. “Stop it.” 

Lucifer is standing, and he doesn't even remember doing it. “Or what?!” He growls.

“Shut up, both of you!” Castiel shouts. They both whip around and face the seraph, who Lucifer didn't notice coming into the kitchen. Castiel has one of the most stern, pissed off expressions he has ever seen on him.

“ _Sam_ , you're only riling him up. I don't know what you think you're achieving, but this isn't helping anyone.” He says, the loudness of his gravelly voice surprising him. 

He sits back down in front of his ruined book. “I'm trying to have a conversation, _Cas_.”

Castiel seems to have reached whatever limit he's been getting to this past week. His gaze is stony, and his grace bleeds anger out of the fissures of frustration he's worn for a while now. “No, you're covering up and hiding the same way you always do when you feel pain. This spite is only there to fight back the fact that Dean's words hurt you, and you're taking your anger out on the wrong person.”

Lucifer narrows his eyes. “Do not psychoanalyse me.” 

“Someone has to.”

Lucifer stands up and lets out a warning growl. His wings itch to unfurl into the same threatening gesture, raise above him and force the little seraph into submission, but he doesn't want Castiel to see how different they are now, advertising his impurity and freakishness and so far from the beautiful archangel he used to be a long time ago.

Castiel isn't even fazed, going off on a roll. Dean is slowly rising from his chair, his food now thoroughly forgotten.

“You're trying to use this ridiculous arrogance like it will save you, because you think you can go on as you have before. You _can't_ , Lucifer.” 

This stuns him, the edges of Castiel's words like a knife to his flesh. Castiel finishes quietly. “Trying to drown your guilt in anger will only eat at you more.”

Lucifer jumps forward, grabs his bold younger brother by the lapels of his trench coat and rams him up against the kitchen wall; keeps him there with his left arm and summons his archangel blade into his right hand to press it against his throat.

Dean freezes, hoping to keep him from cutting into their best friend and erasing him from existence.

“ _Don't_ ,” Lucifer snarls, Castiel's visage blurring with unshed tears, “speak about things you don't understand.”

Castiel doesn't seem the least bit worried about the possibility of death, as if every experience he's had with it has desensitized him to the danger. He levels his older brother with a hard, sorrowful look. “But I do.”

Lucifer falters, and his blade moves an inch away from Castiel's throat when his little brother's grace moves and stretches out, getting right to the edge of his own like an adoring hand hoping to clutch at the clothes of their idol while they look away, like young angels used to do when the Lightbringer's wings were so very mesmerising. Castiel's True voice fills his mind like the birdsong of a young blackbird, harmonious and quiet and full of regret.

' _I am responsible for more deaths of our siblings than you, Brother.'_

Castiel's guilt floods his mind, everything the seraph loathes about himself, why he bows to a human's whims and sacrifices himself without a second thought.

The civil war in Heaven started with good intentions, twisted into the massacre of Raphael's angels, _killing Raphael_ , going mad with power and letting out the first Beasts, unintentionally causing the Great Fall in his attempt at redemption, leading a faction, seeing his siblings die by the dozen and trying to help; knowing only his own failure.

Letting Lucifer in knowing what cost it would bring, how the archangel would burn him out with no hope of ever coming back once his mind sizzles into nothingness along with his vessel; only to see him slaughter more brothers and sisters.

Castiel is tired of bearing this weight. So tired of _himself_ , but living on in some vain hope of repenting for his mistakes. Because he believes this is all that he is worth. 

A grown fledgling, barely four-billion-years old, so much younger than Lucifer and so weighed down by the past.

Baring himself to Lucifer, to see every corner of his mind, willingly.

' _Castiel_.' Lucifer gasps out, his True voice echoing in their heads. Castiel blinks at how different it is, no longer the hauntingly beautiful hymn that sang in the choirs, but lower and softer, undertoned with earthy, warmer melodies and so very human.

Lucifer wants to blame Castiel, but he can't. He can't blame someone so broken and desperate to be forgiven, even though he will never see his siblings again, never see Raphael.

He feels like he did when he first woke up. He really feels two weeks old. 

This is complicated and conflicting. It has all piled up, every new problem on top of the other until he doesn't know how to deal with them, because he pushed everything to the side like he's making a fucking tower out of his issues and now it's overturning on top of him. Tears gather in his eyes like they do so often now; his fragile defenses another consequence of what happened.

He lets his blade dissolve back into his grace and staggers back, leaning against a wall.

Castiel keeps standing there and pulls his mind away. Dean is still frozen, but he relaxes now that he's not expecting Lucifer to kill his best friend, and now also the most important person in his life, because he doesn't care about the guilty, evil archangel.

If he were Sam, Dean would already be by his side offering comfort and concern, but now he's just standing there while he's crumbling and everything is collapsing around him, because Dean would never do it for Lucifer.

“I wish-” He hiccups, letting out a choked off sob. His voice doesn't reach above a whisper. “I wish this was simpler.” He chokes out, words falling from his mouth without any real forethought. Overwhelming defeat replaces the vitriol he was spewing just minutes ago, and he _can't do this anymore._

“I want this to _stop_ ,” he rasps, pale hands grasping at his shirt, eyes screwing shut. “I just wanna be me. Like it was... When I was _just me_.” 

He doesn't know where it comes from, how he's supposed to word it, because he feels like he's too complex and shattered to put it into words and there's not enough space to write down all the paragraphs. He knows he doesn't want to be human, but when he was Sam he was _loved_. He was _wanted_. He had a brother and they had the simple, perfect love so strong they would give their life for each other. He didn't bother with all this celestial baggage and a Father who doesn't give a shit and past fratricide and too much abandonment.

He wants that back so badly right now. And it stops being about Dean, because memories don't matter, it's about experience. It's about emotion. It's not like Dean is a means to what he has yearned for from the moment he was made and just keeps losing, but Dean did give it to him and now it's gone and Lucifer isn't loved. 

Everyone that's ever cared is out of reach and he's stuck with the ghosts of them in his head, and there's a chance none of it was his anyway because he doesn't know who he is anymore. He's the keeper of Lucifer's and Sam's broken corpses and the love of a Father and an older brother they don't have anymore and he wants it all back.

Dean - Sam loves him, he does, but god is this bad timing - wasn't privy to Castiel's mind numbing overshare or the theme of Lucifer's meltdown and takes this as a good entrance to make a hopeful remark. “Then be Sam. I know you already are, you just have to- to bring out that part of you.” 

Lucifer tenses up and shuts his eyes. What comes out of his mouth is a gurgling mix of screeching and sobbing, not actually loud, but trying to be. “Don't you get it I _can't_!”

Dean is just confused, and Lucifer thinks that maybe now he understands the hunter's frustration with him. “Why not?”

Lucifer's legs are shaky where he leans on the wall, but he bows his head and screams out his answer, the only one he can think of because how can he explain it to Dean, screams it to himself, to God, to his wonderful dead little brother he will never see again, to the brothers before him. 

“ _Because I don't know how to!”_ His voice is so raspy, so human, and Lucifer feels so broken. “Okay?! I'm _me_ , Dean. I don't k-know how to change.”

He can feel his grace unravelling the more he loses control, unable to keep it together as he sobs and cries and his fingers and feet go numb, when his defenses fall apart and his grief spills into the room.

“This is how it... always goes. I always mess up, I always make the same mistakes.” He pours it all out, and the lead in his chest burns. He's suffocating. “I ruin... _everything_ I touch. Everyone I love, I drive away. I'm ca- cancer, Dean.”

His knees give out and he slides to the ground, hugging his arms around his knees and sobbing, inconsolable and unwilling to face anything at all. “I don't know h-how to fi-fix this.”

The world is a splotchy blur of brown and vivid blue, and he can feel his grace peeling away from the flesh of his vessel, the body too heavy to leave and unwilling to move while he just wants to run away, so he pulls himself back in and sobs into his lap, breaks down in front of his brothers for the first time in days. His pride crumples, and shame doesn't even matter anymore. It's humiliating, and it devours the last shreds of his dignity but it's what he deserves so he just watches it fall away even though he'll inevitably scrape himself together again later.

Dean is still standing there, probably torn between coming closer and staying away. After all, there was nothing of Sam in the words he spilled. Dean thinks he's just Lucifer, finally getting what's coming to him, slowly destroyed by the guilt of his own actions.

It's fitting. He didn't even last two weeks.

He sees Castiel's trench coat in front of him as the angel kneels down and falls to the ground beside him, and suddenly there's arms wrapping around his shoulders and making him lean to the left, towards the seraph. He surrenders to the blade that must be coming, waits for the pain between his ribs or at his throat, but it doesn't come.

Instead, a warm hand presses him against Castiel's chest and a quiet, soothing murmur fills his ears. His breath catches when he realizes it's an _embrace_.

Why? He doesn't understand.

He hesitantly lifts a hand and slips it between the folds of his brother's coat, around his back, and Castiel holds him closer. He doesn't shy away or stops this beautiful bait he's dangling and Lucifer bites it like an overeager fish that doesn't give a shit about the hook. This is too important, too wonderful.

LuciferSam presses himself against Castiel, wraps both his arms around him and holds on for dear life, seeking comfort and touch that he hasn't had in so long, that Castiel hasn't had in so long.

He wants Castiel to tell him what to do, so he can follow it. He would do anything, if he could just stay there in the warmth of the seraph's damaged grace, being held, pressing his teary face into his trench coat, hoping Cas doesn't hold a grudge because he held a blade to his neck just two minutes ago and weeping like he needs to flood the room with his tears.

Castiel understands, there's nothing hiding their grace right now, they're both raw and open, and he answers. “You can try,” He murmurs against his ear. “Don't let your stubbornness and pride hold back your kindness. There is always a chance to fix things, and you are an archangel with the power to do so.”

Lucifer is hugging him so hard he has to take care not to break the vessel's ribs.

It feels like everything hurts, but this time it's not all bad. It feels as if Castiel is helping his tears wash away some of the poison, and the weight in his chest is a little lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The breakdown was inspired by Gabriel's words to him (he's incapable of change, a disease that spreads like cancer...) Given that Lucifer cried afterwards, those words held weight.  
> Their relationship will be a lot different, based on Lucifer's reaction to his 'death' in season 5 and disregarding Lucifer in seasons 12 and later. Honestly, I liked him a lot more in season 5. My version is a mix between the two, mixed with Sam.  
> * - If anyone wants to know my overlong theory about demon blood and grace, ask in the comments, it's too long to post here '^^


	8. Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter...

Castiel held his broken older brother for a long while, even after his sobbing quieted down and he only sniffed occasionally, arms locked around the seraph. The awkwardness ebbed away, and they were simply slumped together on the kitchen floor; the devil and a flightless angel.

Dean left shortly after Castiel decided to comfort him, and he didn't blame him for it. Dean didn't understand the deeper meaning behind what was happening (he would have to explain it to him later), and he was still hurt from the continuous passive aggression and the unstable personality their brother had. 

The past weeks had strained the Winchesters' relationship, and Castiel hoped that with Dean's help, they could salvage what could be saved and try coexisting together in some form of friendship, or at least proper tolerance.

When Castiel judged the timing to be correct, he gently nudged Lucifer and rose up, taking the archangel with him. It was awkward once they were standing, with Sam's vessel being taller than Castiel's, but he nevertheless managed to maneuver his brother to his old bedroom and set him down on the large bed. Lucifer curled on his side and looked into the distance, his grace a mixture of dark blues and grays. At least it was no longer stifling Castiel with the overwhelming mix of guilt, shame, anger and sadness.

Castiel somewhat expected all of those, but the intensity of his emotions surprised him. The only explanation he could think of was that they burst out far more intensely than they would have if Lucifer hadn't suppressed and hid them, focusing on his anger instead. He sighs. They probably should have expected and dealt with the archangel's unhealthy coping habits before they got out of hand.

He watches in tired disappointment when Lucifer slowly pulls his grace back and into himself, hiding the way it projects until Castiel is once again blind to his thoughts, all the while motionless on the bed.

Castiel takes this as a cue he wants privacy, so he stands to leave the room when pale, long fingers suddenly grasp at his trench coat. He turns around to see Sam's grey eyes staring hopefully at him, pleading at him to stay.

He nods and sits on the bed to take off his coat and shoes before settling down next to his older brother, who scoots higher to give him more space. 

Then they sit there. Lucifer takes whatever solace he finds in Castiel's presence, and the seraph thinks about what will happen now.

He meant what he said, and he hopes the archangel will take his words to heart. That he will try; if not to right old wrongs he has plenty of power to, then at least to improve the way he's been plowing through life. Or in Sam's case; not sink into the person Lucifer is, and keep some of the stability he no longer has.

Castiel misses Sam. Dean does too, and the seraph knows he would sell his soul again in a heartbeat if it brought him back. 

Lucifer blinks slowly at him, his eyes sad. He knows they're mourning for someone he wants to give them, but there's so much of _himself_ in the way. His head drops back onto his pillow and a sigh releases from his lungs.

Castiel stays there, only touching the hand still fisted on the corner of his folded trench coat. 

  
Lucifer sits up and looks at Castiel's face a while later, looking intently at him like he's on the verge of making a decision. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, standing out like blood red targets on his otherwise pale face, dark irises gleaming until they look blue, vibrancy that comes with crying. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth before he crosses his legs and steadies himself for something. 

“Sit and turn your back to me.” He orders softly, gesturing with his hands. 

Castiel frowns slightly in confusion, but there's nothing forceful about his voice, so he hesitantly complies. He shivers when a cold hand touches his shoulders and pulls off his black suit jacket, tracing over his white dress shirt.

“Unfurl your wings so I can see them, Cas.” Lucifer says, and Castiel suddenly has a good idea of what he's about to attempt, and it's not casual preening.

A knot of worry and excitement coils in his stomach, and he slowly does as he's asked.

All angels that fell to Earth were forced to find a vessel; not only so they could interact with the world and escape the fate of fading away now that they were cut off from Heaven, but to escape the pain of their damaged grace as well. When in a vessel, their form wasn't outside or around it to control the body like a puppeteer: it folded and compressed into it's most basic, shapeless form. It filled every crevice of the body and pushed the soul far inside. 

Castiel hasn't pulled on the part of his grace that was his wings in a long time, and the pain is unexpected and sudden as they unfold and stretch out, forming outside of his vessel on the only spot somewhat appropriate for them, even though this human vessel is nothing like his true form and doesn't have the bone structure to accommodate wings.

He takes a shuddering breath and extends them, grimacing as the exposed tendons stretch and he catches a glimpse of them when he looks to the side, feeling the usual pang of loss and revulsion at the sight of them.

A few long brittle quills still stick to the skeletal limbs, hanging uselesly off the ethereal strips of flesh, charred by the force of his fall. There are some whole, inky black feathers at the base, around his shoulders and sticking to the membrane, but none of those could catch air.

He can hear Lucifer's sharp intake of breath and bites his lips. “Sorry,” Sam says quietly, and Castiel can only nod again - anything else would come out as a croak, laced with his pain.

It doesn't seem like something that could ever be fixed, and he can almost hear his brother's mind whirring away and trying to think of something that could give the wings back their purpose.

Lucifer slips his hands under the ruined coverts and sets them on Castiel's back, giving him a moment of anticipation before he's flooded by archangel grace. 

It's nothing like possesion of course, and there is no malicious intent in the overwhelming influx of grace, but Castiel still trembles. Lucifer slows down and gently wraps him in his Light, instead of unintentionally squeezing the life out of him. 

The grace trickles and soothes his damaged, diminished essence, and Castiel wants to sag down on the bed, because this feels far better than anything he thought might happen when he imagined the consequences of giving the fallen archangel a hug (he wasn't really thinking that intently, but he did, mid-embrace, consider a better relationship). He hasn't had another sibling touch him with good intent like this since he was a younger and the friendships he had with others his age were simple and honest.

It's rejuvenating, and he wonders whether it will stay like this once Lucifer stops pouring it all over him and backs down before probably shutting off and refusing to acknowledge the kind action.

Lucifer seems determined, though. His grace sinks into Castiel's, breaking it open and lighting Castiel up from the inside. It's both uncomfortable, invasive and a breath of the freshest air ever gracing his vessel's lungs. 

Then, because that is what he's doing this for, the archangel's grace, more than a hundred times more powerful and absolute than Castiel's spreads and pushes against the base of his wings. Castiel grunts through his teeth and the grasp on his shoulders tightens.

The light sweeps and caresses the burnt and shredded grace, and each sweep feels like rocks dragging over it even though he knows Lucifer is trying to be gentle about it; pulsating from Castiel's core and outwards, cooling down the feverish seraph.

Triumphant humming reaches Castiel's ears, and he tries to send his confusion and curiosity over to Lucifer.

' _The bruising on the edge here is fading a bit.'_ LuciferSam tells him, his satisfaction at the tiny success clearly heard. His Voice reminds him again how different the archangel is, and he keeps it in mind, taking comfort in the new voice. It's not the same sound that spoke in his head while he was possessed.

Lucifer keeps working, directing his light from the base of his wings to the lone wingtips, trying to reanimate the chared flesh. The pain slowly ebbs away, and Castiel leans back and tries to get out of the way of what his brother is doing.

After half an hour, the change is still minimal; damage receded at the shoulders blades and feathers shining with healthier light, but the wrecked limbs are largely the same - and Castiel feels like if it goes on for much longer the power source he's plugged into will burn him out and explode his grace, so Lucifer pulls away and catches Castiel when he sways. “I've gotta stop now,” He says, “But I can keep going when you stop... vibrating.”

Castiel nods, his head spinning like it did when he drank a liquor store, except this time he feels like he's overflowing with light. It's not actually that extreme, but Castiel has been severely weakened for years and had gotten used to the low reserves he had. 

He turns to Lucifer with gratitude in his loopy eyes. “Thank you,” He tries to say, but his words are slurred and his brother gives him a lopsided, amused smile.

“You can do that when I'm actually done with them, Cas.” He looks again at his ruined wings, speculating. “And that's going to take some seriously creative grace work.” His eyes get the same researchy, 'excited about some new piece of knowledge' look Sam used to get, when he came to Castiel and explained something he found when Dean wasn't interested. It sobers Castiel up until he's paying attention.

“I'll have to form some of the muscles and tendons anew, after I fix up your joints - but that won't take that long. I can mix my grace with yours, that'll work the best, but you're gonna have to integrate what I weave on top of the basic structure...” Sam leans closer, his mind racing and fingers going to his chin in thought.

“After that's done I can pull new skin over just enough so you can start healing up yourself too while you wait. Then I can kickstart your feather growth and you'll fly in no time. Well,” He amends, “At least a week, if you push it.”

Castiel stares at him, half in disbelief and half in hopeful thankfulness. Lucifer notices it and looks away, fixing his eyes on his writing desk. Castiel clears his throat. “I appreciate what you've done, brother. I never thought I would fly again... I was sure I lost my wings forever.”

Lucifer shifts awkwardly before he plasters a weak smirk on his face. “No problem. You're a good egg, you know. It's, uh, worth getting a little out of breath.” Then he half rolls, half slips off the bed and strolls to the door. “I'm gonna go read or something, somewhere else, 'kay? You get off your trip.” 

He winks and goes to open the door, but Castiel stops him. “You should talk to Dean. Openly, Sam.”

“Dean isn't in the bunker right now.”

Castiel attempts to make a flat look at him, and he's pretty sure he succeeded. “When he comes back, then.”

Lucifer scrunches up his face. “I'll try.” Then he twirls around and is out the door before Castiel can tell him not to forget about it. He sighs. This would be a long process, but maybe the archangel would handle his own mind better. And a few sincere, long talks with Dean would do good for both of them.

Castiel slumps on the bed and wonders when he became a mediator.

* * *

He will talk to Dean as soon as he gets back.

He repeats that to himself a few times so it sinks in some more as he escapes to the library. Away from Castiel's grateful, kind eyes and what comes with them.

He really enjoys it, to be looked at with something other than wariness, fear or anger. It makes him feel... warmer. He had always liked to be looked at with trust and adoration, back in Heaven, and when he couldn't have it he strived for fear and the power he felt at the subservience of his demons. But this feels so much better.

He wonders how Cas would look at him if he succeeded, if he restored his wings completely and Castiel could take to the skies with the same gleeful cry all fledglings had. Lucifer wants to see that again, a bit. 

Perhaps, saving his wings would redeem him in the seraph's eyes. Remove the fear he instilled with his other actions, and even the scale of the good and bad he had done.

He mentally slaps himself at that thought. Fixing one angel's wings couldn't even start making a difference. 

Then it hits him that Father wanting him to atone like this might have been his plan. That he wanted Lucifer to do as much as he could to fix his mistakes.

And just like that, the new-found revulsion towards anything his dad wants him to do is _there_ , sitting like an elephant between his desire to make it all right and himself. 

Before now, he would have slammed the door on 'redemption' before he could even think, just like he did two weeks ago. But he really does want to fix things. He wants Cas to think he's a good person, he wants Dean to love him, he wants to get rid of this guilt and all his past mistakes weighing him down.

So, yes, he realizes he'll probably do it regardless of what Chuck wants, because he doesn't want to feel like crap more than he wants to annoy him.

With a sigh, he starts rummaging through the shelves, trying to see if anything interests him, and eventually picks up a book about obscure monsters and goes to sit down. 

It surprised him, how much he missed and didn't know. Every other angel was there to witness the modern human history, but he missed all of it. He managed to get information from an occasional whisper of a demon, attempting to establish contact, but the longest conversation he had was with Azazel - and even then it had to be done with minimal wording.

He burst out of the cage largely ignorant of the world, the humans, and how Earth looked now. It took him a too-long time to learn enough to get consent from a human, upon which he quickly consumed the knowledge Nick had. He learned gestures, human references and customs, but he didn't utilize any of them at all for a good while.

He wasn't that familiar with monsters before, and Nick wasn't aware of the supernatural. When Lucifer possessed Sam, he refrained from reading his mind (though he dug quite _enthusiastically_ through it while inside the Cage). 

He knew, logically, that while he was one of the oldest angels, he was also one of the most ignorant ones when it came to Earth. After all, a lot had happened in the last forty thousand years, and angels focused on humanity to absolutely excruciating detail.

How Heaven changed greatly surprised him as well. The modernization of the human district they held to now was baffling, and he hated to think of how their quarters looked now. Everything was white, lit up with blue grace. He wanted to see what was done to the spaces he used to love before; the collective Archives had to hold so many books and records now. Did Raphael modernize the main infirmary? How had the garden changed? What about the training spheres, the barracks or the resting places they used?

Did Michael's chambers, adjacent to his, stay the same? Were Lucifer's chambers even still there?

The snap of a door startles him out of his musings, and he listens to Dean's heavy steps down the stairs.

He breathes in a large amount of air he doesn't need and turns the book upside down on the table before standing up and walking over to where Dean is.

He has to walk after him, since Dean moved straight to the kitchen - probably to get a beer. Sam quietly slips around the doorway and sees him opening the fridge for a bottle. He can see the sparks of alcohol already present in his body, the slightly sluggish way his brain shoots signals across his nervous system. He isn't wasted, but he's just inebriated enough to probably get his tongue loose.

He kicks himself for considering ever exploiting Dean's bad coping habits, but there is a chance Dean could open up instead of raging faster. Still, he should clear up his head enough so he could be fully present in the conversation.

“Hey, Dean.” He says, and his brother jumps and curses, turning around with the beer in his hand. 

Sam shuffles in place. “Can we talk? For real, without any screaming?”

Dean regards him through lidded eyes, and yeah, Sam should clear that up. Dean might notice though, and he doubts the human would take his messing around Dean's metabolism well.

His brother lets out a breath. “Alright, let's do this.” He looks at the kitchen. “Not here tho', let's go to the war room or something.”

Right. The only important room nothing too bad had recently happened in, neither shouting, excessive sobbing or people getting mashed together into new people who are even more of a mess.

Sam nods and turns on his heel, taking the time he and Dean aren't face to face so he can pull together all of his calmness and courage. It's no time at all before they're sitting at the table/map of the world.

Sam hands Dean a tall glass of water that technically wasn't there a minute ago, but luckily Dean only gives it a very suspicious look before he gulps it down.

“Okay.” He says after he's done drinking (which sobered him up more than a usual glass of water) and sits back. “We should put in place some rules, because I don't wanna go in circles anymore. First; let's not get pissed off.” Lucifer slowly nods. Dean continues. “No sarcasm or witty shit, just be honest. Don't evade stuff because you don't like it. And don't fly off, okay?”

Lucifer nods again, agreeing; it was what he told himself to do anyway. “Fine.”

Dean chooses to go first (Lucifer doesn't know how or what to start with), and because this conversation needs to be started with the hardest topics, he goes in swinging with a metaphorical sledgehammer. “I need you to tell me what you want. Because I don't know, and I never know what you'll do or what you're thinking.” He takes a breath. “And what that kitchen scene was about.”

Lucifer swallows and starts forming his replies. What he _wants_? This needs to be more specific. “I... what I want. If you mean _from life,_ or what I wanna do...” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I don't know either. This is a wide question.”

“Well then narrow it down. What do you want from me? And Cas, because that's a can of worms I can't see the lid of. Again, kitchen.”

Right, he almost stabbed him, then sobbed in his shoulder for a good while. Sam wants to answer honestly, but this is hard to say out loud. His voice sounds uncertain. “I want us to be like we used to. When we... had a good relationship.”

Dean scoffs. “Well you went about that the wrong way.”

He'd like to say something back, but Dean set down rules. He wants to be honest instead of hiding like Castiel said, and he knew this would be hard. “Yeah. I did.”

Dean keeps looking at him, and his voice goes serious. “Why didn't you do it differently then? You could've. You decided not to talk, and then you decided to be an asshole.”

“Because...” Sam isn't sure, and he thinks that the reasoning he's about to give Dean isn't gonna impress him.

“I didn't _want_ you to hate me, but I thought you would anyway. So I thought... maybe it would hurt less. If I hated you first. I mean...” How to word it? He desperately searches for the right words. “If I rejected you first. If I never tried getting you to like me, then I'd never fail at it. You know?”

Dean squints at him. “I don't see the logic.”

Perhaps another trait that went out the window with the new him is Sam's reasonable side. Lucifer groans quietly. “I didn't want to go through it again. If I tried and you wouldn't... you know.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, and it's clear he doesn't understand. “We've never been here before.”

“But I have.” Lucifer swallows. “With Michael. And I didn't want to just repeat it all. I didn't think I could take it with you too.”

Dean tenses and leans back as some of the dust is wiped off the dirty window he views LuciferSam through, thoughts so loud the archangel can almost hear them, soul clenching together. “Oh.”

It's as if he keeps forgetting his memories aren't just the ones of a thirty three-year-old human. Like he's just realizing everything that has happened, that was said, is all in his head now - and it shapes what he does, how he thinks and what he says. Dean didn't think about that, his reasoning ended with 'it's Lucifer'.

It makes him sad, which makes him pissed off, but he decides to focus on the former today.

Dean keeps having the domino effect of revelations, and the discoveries pile up in his brain: the same person who started, caused and stopped the apocalypse, the person who happens to be the younger brother of Michael the archangel, and suddenly Dean isn't the only big brother. Who hated humans with a passion Dean didn't understand and saved them at the cost of his own sanity and freedom.

Dean looks at him, mapping his face like he's seeing him for the first time again.

“You thought... I would do what Michael did.” He says slowly, momentarily pushing away the things his brain just reminded him of.

Lucifer slowly nods, and wishes his shirt was a hoodie he could squeeze into like a turtle. But Dean would just look at him weirdly if he did it.

Dean sighs. “You know I'm not Michael.”

Well, _duh_. It's not as if Michael's vessel wish came true in the same fucked up way Lucifer's did, and no, he needs to stop imagining what that would be like. Dean rakes a hand through his hair. “Your face is loud right now, you know.”

Lucifer promptly focuses on removing his sarcastic expression and looking calmly at Dean. His older brother sighs, and his posture slumps. He suddenly looks very... tired. “This is so fucked up.”

The fusion (because that's what he is, they need to stop dancing around it) sighs as well and leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling and tracing the old fingerprints on the surface, the ones that hadn't been wiped since the walls were finished. “Truer words have never been spoken.” The words ring as defeated and quiet as Dean's, and he feels an odd sense of companionship in their shared misery.

Silence takes over for a while before Dean speaks up again. “I shot you,” He states, like he suddenly remembered it and it stood out amongst the other memories. It probably did - it was, after all, technically attempted murder. “With the Colt.”

Lucifer nods. “Yep, you did. But I'm not holding a grudge over that, it can't kill me anyway.”

Dean suddenly cocks his head at him, and Sam wonders if he got the habit from Cas. His eyes are curious, but there's a calculating hint in his gaze that comes with hunting. “What can? If the Colt can't, or an angel blade. We've always talked about the Cage as the only option if you went berserk.”

He can't hide a flinch at the mention of the Cage, but he's sure this is a question he really needs to answer. He's giving Dean the knowledge of his weaknesses, placing his trust in him. On the other hand, what he'll say might disturb the hunter. “Not much,” he says, “Dad obviously, but I doubt he'd do it after going through the trouble of making me _me_. The other thing is an archangel blade, wielded by another archangel. Wouldn't work otherwise.”

Dean's jaw slackens. “So there's nothing. You're the only archangel, since Michael is out of commission. You're one hundred percent unstoppable now.”

Lucifer shrugs. “Technically; unless you found a way to lock me back up.” He'd rather die. “But I think we can say I've been properly neutered.”

Dean goes quiet again, probably mulling over the same 'was it worth it if this saved the planet?' train of thought he had a while before. It's weird; a while back he wouldn't be admitting any of this, and he wouldn't be viewing his past self with this detachment. Those were his thoughts, his plans, but he can't imagine having them anymore. He can't imagine being Sam or Lucifer again.

He doesn't know when it happened.

Dean looks at him again. “So... kitchen?”

Sam shifts. “I dunno, everything just got too much and with Cas showing me some stuff... It hit me all over again. I'm just always so... angry, and when you say something that triggers me I just lose it.”

“You said you couldn't change.” Dean traces tiny painted islands with his finger. “You don't know how to be Sam.”

He doesn't know how to answer that, so he just waits silently until Dean raises his eyes and looks at him. “I don't think that's true. Because it keeps hitting me too, about you possessing Cas or arguing with Chuck or... or the Cage.” Lucifer winces. He knows Dean suspects everything that happened in the Cage, but there are things he can never tell him; couldn't as Sam, and definitely can't now. He doesn't even want to think about it, all the lines he crossed. And maybe all this is a punishment for that, too. All those memories haunting him, what he did to himself.

They should talk about the Cage, need to do it eventually. But neither of them want to, so they simply won't. Dean looks paler when he goes on.

“But we're sitting here talking like normal people, trying to fix our problems. That counts as change.”

Lucifer mulls it over before he stares at Dean and decides to bare himself like he did with Castiel, no secrets or mysteries Dean has to solve with guessing. “Most of the time, I feel like Lucifer, who got a soul better than himself. Like his mind is somehow the dominant one.” He starts, trying to answer his statements the long way. Dean looks a bit sick again.

“And I feel like... It didn't even work that much. Like, not even this could help somebody as screwed up as me. I'm not even the same person and I can't change how I act. And it makes me feel so damn pathetic.”

He looks away. “But sometimes I feel so much like Sam, just Sam, and I push it away because it hurts. I never wanted to be a monster nobody loves, and what I want to say or do sometimes makes me wanna cut my own tongue out. I hate it.” _I hate myself._

His breathing gets shaky now, but he's been waiting for something to make it tremble since the conversation started.

“There's so much about me you don't know, Dean.” He says quietly. “I've been alive for almost fourteen billion years. I had the Mark for more than twelve. It wasn't like-” He lifts a hand and rakes it through his long hair, brushing it away from his eyes. “It was so long, and we change so slowly. I barely remember what I used to be like; and I have an eidetic memory. I've done more horrible things than you can comprehend.”

There's old, bitter resentment on Dean's face, but he was ready for it and it doesn't surprise him. What does is the twinge of light in Dean's pretty soul that looks awfully like sympathy. The hunter regrets what he did under the Mark's influence, but that can't compare to his own experience. With Dean, the darkness only shrouded the goodness of his soul and forced its bloodlust on him. It couldn't do that to the brightest archangel - instead, it dug it's way into his mind, slowly and gradually. That couldn't be taken away or reversed.

Dean doesn't know that, but he clearly has hope and he digs it up. “Sam, what's important is the person you choose to be now.”

There's a lot he can point out, like the fact that Dean would give anything for that person to be his little brother, but he restrains himself. Dean knows it.

“I don't know where to start,” he admits, and maybe he's asking for help without actually saying he needs it. “I don't know who I am. I just know who I used to be.” 

Dean looks lost. “Then we'll... we'll figure it out.”

Was that confirmation? Dear Father, he needs to stop feeling hopeful about the things Dean says. He still looks at him like a decade-old fledgling looks at a guiding seraph. Sam sounds so young, and for just a minute he pushes away the pride that keeps him from being vulnerable, pushes away Lucifer. “Together. Right? We can figure this all out.”

Dean blinks, opens his mouth, tripping over what he wants to say, so Sam follows the advice and just tells him. “Dean, I can't do this alone.” He says urgently. It actually feels nice to say it, even if his sentences aren't as refined as he would want. “I need help with this. To deal. With... myself.”

It's like a slap to his brother - the good kind, for once. His eyes get a determined streak and his soul shines just a little brighter. “Yeah. Yeah, we'll help you.”

Sam turns to putty at the assurance his brother will help keep his head above the water, even through the spike of guilt that Dean isn't helping Sam deal with his ugly past, he's helping Lucifer. Though with his multiple perspectives it's not all that hard to justify it by saying Dean is helping Sam settle, and it makes him feel less rotten.

“But you were right about me not knowing anything about you, at least not as Lucifer,” Dean adds, finally saying the name without looking too disturbed, “So I wanna hear it. You need to tell me about your past and how you feel about everything.”

Sam nods, genuinely smiling for the first time in weeks. It felt like forever. “Okay. Thanks.” He says gently. He wants to hug Dean more than anything, but the hunter wouldn't take it well. It's too early, and he's gotten that comfort from Cas already.

They don't have that talk about the past yet - Dean really needs to sleep, and for a change Lucifer can hear him snoring as soon as he goes to bed, the late hour and alcohol having done their part. 

He goes back to Castiel and tells him about the conversation like an excited sibling, even though he never had that with the seraph before, feeling oddly warm when Castiel smiles awkwardly in approval, no longer woozy from the influx of power. 

To pass time until he can continue with his brother's wings (and because he wants to), he takes a quick shower, putting on 'fresh' jeans and a lighter shirt just because everything is a little different again. It's as if he's popped a pill and feels relieved and happy to the point where he's verging on delirious, riding a high after reaching his lowest point so far, head spinning from the stark contrast - and he doesn't even care about how rapidly his emotions are fluctuating right now because this is great.

It's brighter, not as suffocating. They haven't even started with LuciferSam's weird self-discovery journey and he already feels less confused. He's weirdly cleaner after the spray washes down his skin and removes the remnants of the salt his tears left on his face, but that might just be placebo.

He gets lost deep in thought once he returns to Castiel and quietly gestures for him to turn around and spread what's left of his wings. Unfinished ideas take root in his mind, everything he wants to say to Dean now, what he feels he needs to do while he shapes his grace with Castiel's to restructure the tendons between the seraph wing's shoulders and wrists until he can pull over muscles and skin.

He watches his work like a proud architect, helping the seraph integrate what Lucifer added until the tenderness of his limbs isn't so fragile anymore and his work won't unravel and collapse.

He leaves Castiel in the early morning hours, smiling at the dazed, awed expression as the seraph stares at and flexes mostly naked wings, raw to touch but liable to regain all they lost.

Dean will sleep in, and he has time. As soon as he's out of sight, he unfurls his own grey-white, speckled wings and takes off into the astral plane, pulling his vessel along with him.

The park he lands in is bathed in yellow from the rising sun. He quickly folds his wings out of sight and bundles his grace closer, making the decision to try and cover his soul. It won't do for long, but he doesn't want judgement or uncomfortable questions.

He breathes in the fresh air and steps down the path, listening to his shoes crunching over gravel until he arrives to the playground.

Asariel abruptly rises from the bench she was sitting on, straightening to the full height of the little girl she's possessing. He can feel her grace flexing into a rapid message, announcing his presence to Purah until the other angel appears as well.

Their light ripples in wary, fearful colors, pale and strangely hopeful. “Lucifer.” Asariel greets, breaking the silence.

He wonders what they're thinking. Their eagerness for answers is obvious, and Chuck clearly didn't speak to them at all. 

They never knew him before the Fall, too young to see him before he shut himself away or to participate in his rebellion. Purah is older, but she doesn't know him either. They were told he was evil, and lived with the knowledge as fact. Now that he had technically helped them, they don't know what to think or how to treat him. They grabbed onto the lifeline he offered them, desperate enough to accept help no matter where it came from or what he wanted in return.

“Hey,” he says, hoping his voice is more confident that he feels. He stretches his face into an easygoing, lopsided smile. “I told you I'd stick around, didn't I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get your hopes up, things aren't about to get better for the bromance just yet muahaha :}


	9. ...You will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will bring me up

Lucifer stands at the head of Heaven's meeting room, looking at the group of fearful, expectant faces and the damaged grace behind them.

He knows he wasn't this nervous when he was here a while ago, going blind into a conversation he neither thought over nor knew the outcome of. He's confident in the safety of his superior grace, but he has no control over the reactions of his siblings.

Now they all stare at him, and he's glad they're too scared to prod at his odd grace and see it up close.

Heaven organized themselves better since he was last here, establishing a crude leadership; an older angel Dumah, folded into a dark haired woman, steps forward and addresses him. “Lucifer. We didn't expect you to come back so soon.” Her raspy voice gives the impression of shaking. 

It's not that soon. It's been two weeks already, and they've been dragging themselves like a week has no right to do. Dumah continues. “What happened with the Darkness?”

Lucifer keeps his composure tightly bound into a facade he deems acceptable. He doesn't want to look desperate at any point, so easygoing and relaxed seems as good option as any, made easier by his current good mood. He nods. “We solved that two weeks ago. Amara isn't a problem anymore. They made up, if you can believe it.”

Dumah blinks, and Lucifer can almost hear the whispers rushing over the Host's shared mind, the one he isn't a part of anymore. Indra, a rather bold angel (or maybe he doesn't care about whether he lives or dies anymore, judging by his remarks on their last meeting) tilts his head, confused and hopeful. “Then where is Father?”

Lucifer takes a deep breath. “He took a vacation with aunt Amara. They went away together, so we're on our own again, guys.”

The collective mood falls, disappointment and panic spreading like spilled syrup, their Light rippling into wild shades like a chameleon's skin. “But we need his help!” A brother yelps, pathetic in his inherent desire for guidance, and it pisses Lucifer off like clockwork. _Numbers dwindling_ , their minds scream, _burned, broken grace_. The crushed hope in someone fixing their situation is palpable, and the silence that always seemed to follow Lucifer in Heaven fills with whispers, yells and protests. 

Of course. Angels were designed to follow orders, to rely on a higher authority. Their first instinct was to submit to whoever was in charge - and Lucifer is ashamed to admit that he has the same urge to follow despite leading lower orders. After all, the moment Father seemed worthy of it, he listened to every command. 

“ _Anyway_.” Lucifer says loudly, effectively shutting his siblings up. “I'm here to help solve some of your many problems.”

Eremiel stares at him in surprise. “You're offering help?”

Sam smirks uneasily. “Sure, you could say that.”

He looks at the glances his younger siblings share before Eremiel looks at him again. “...What can you do?”

“Well. Your wings, for one.” Sam starts, and oh Dad he really should have thought this through - _like if this even worked_ \- before he dived right in. But he was so eager, and this seemed like a wonderful idea and he wasn't thinking about what he would say, how this would go. Perhaps he's just being impulsive, the trait contributing to something good for once. He isn't sure, but he was happy, ridiculously overjoyed at Dean's assurance, along with Castiel's words. What he mumbled to him in the kitchen is still bouncing around in his brain. “You want them back, and I've recently discovered that I can restore them.” 

Very, _very_ recently, and it's far from over, but they don't need to know that. Probably.

The angels are all gaping at him now, their hope sinking hooks of expectation into the wariness. Lucifer takes this moment to keep talking before someone interrupts him. “It takes a while, of course. It's a healing process, but I've already started fixing up a pair, and it's going nicely. Seems it's perfectly possible to unfall an angel.”

The hope he's been looking out for, that he saw before and is here again spreads like a positive infection, excitement making their muddy grace light up with flashes of vibrancy, their thoughts betraying the skepticism and suspicion they eye him with. The room would appear silent to anyone without grace, even though it buzzes like a tense swarm.

Dumah steps towards him and her grace stiffens in determination, hiding her fear. Her voice cuts into the room and everyone listens. “You helped Father save us from the Darkness, but we have no proof of your words and all that you hide from us.” Her brown eyes narrow. “What's wrong with your grace, Lucifer? And how did you acquire a Perfect vessel?”

He expected someone to call him out on this at some point, but it's barely been minutes, for Dad's sake. And the way Dumah worded it is making emotions flare up he doesn't want to unpack now, in the middle of a meeting.

She asked what was _wrong_ with it. He didn't pay all that much thought to how the Host might view his altered grace and the permanent presence of a human soul. He can tell himself he doesn't care, but he's getting sick of lying to himself about the newer facets of himself that he doesn't like - like wanting to be normal and not some merged abomination again, a mix of two species, and oh god what would Michael think of him now?

Would Michael think he was a freak? Lucifer needs to force himself to stop thinking about it and get back to the present because this is _not the time_.

Michael is in the Cage, getting what he deserves. Michael doesn't have to know about this at all.

Lucifer had always hated humans, and now he has an integral part of one, and this is poetic justice, and Dad is probably laughing his ass off somewhere. It's disintegrating his happiness, turning it sour.

He stills his breath against the faces all staring at him, boldly scrutinizing his grace now that an angel has pointed it out. He can't hide himself more than he already is, and every single angel in the room can see that it's wrong, that it's off-coloured and different. Lucifer takes a breath and keeps his voice even. “Everything regarding my... new vessel and my grace can be chalked up to Dad.”

Indra blinks at him. “Father gave you a vessel?”

 _He gave me much more than that_. Lucifer nods, hiding how much this makes him cringe. “Yep.”

After a few beats of silence it becomes clear he's not going to say anything else, so Dumah steps forward again. “Do you need anything to repair our wings?”

He collects himself and looks back at her. “A room, somewhere to sit down, preferably a bed. I can only work on one angel at a time, and this goes in stages.”

His siblings turn to each other, and again he can feel the thoughts rushing between the thirty or so present angels that fit into the white meeting room in the human district of Heaven. He can feel the pathways outside zigging with their messages as well, thoughts shooting past him like a pulse to the outer corners of Heaven. It's like watching a river instead of swimming with the others.

He wants to know how many are left. Judging by the smiting attempted on Amara, there had to be at least a few hundred - the Darkness was weakened by their attack so much she seeked help from a witch. But that was still barely a fraction of the innumerable legions Heaven used to possess. Lucifer isn't tethered to Heaven and can't support it so it doesn't crumble, but even he can feel how weakened its foundations are.

Dumah turns to him. “Would the infirmary suffice? We have one located in this part of Heaven.”

He frowns, but nods in confirmation. Are all angels stationed in the human region of the celestial realm? Can they even access the higher spheres, stuck in their vessels as they are?

“Who wants to go first?” He asks, and it doesn't come out taunting or even as a leer. It sounds so genuine they give him a few confused glances.

A young lesser angel slowly stands up from where he was sitting, making all eyes fix on him. A quick scan of his broken grace is enough for Lucifer to identify him as Zuriel. He opens his lanky vessel's mouth to say something, but Sam decides to move it along. He has a few hours until Dean wakes up, and he doesn't want it to look like he bailed. “Alright! Dumah, can you show me to the infirmary?”

Dumah gives him a quick nod and quickly steps around him and out of the glass door. Zuriel hurries after him, and two other angels accompany them, glancing between Lucifer's grace - still hiding his wings and as much of his soul as he can - and their apparent leader.

“And you are?” Lucifer raises an eyebrow while they're walking. They must have decided to come with over angel radio.

The left one, a once powerful angel in an older vessel looks at him while they walk. He can see he's kept the vessel for decades, and hadn't changed the man's clothing much since then. “I am Ishim,” he introduces himself with a respectful nod, “I used to be a flight commander on Earth, but there isn't many left now. This is Nadiel, one of our best remaining healers.” He gestures to an angel beside him, one possessing a woman with olive skin and brown hair, complimented by round, hazel eyes. She timidly greets the archangel and Sam gives her a small, pleasant smile. He quickly looks back to Dumah when he realizes it stunned her.

The human district of Heaven is filled with billions of souls, each with a tiny pocket dimension of sorts that stretches infinitely into itself, every door a gateway into it. It doesn't occupy much space and the levels are all organized by century and alphabetical order. There are posts interespersed into the infinity, ones that weren't there when Lucifer was still a part of the Host. Reality folds and compresses around their little group as they walk, and while the walls are the same they find themselves thousands of souls away from the meeting room. 

Lucifer has no idea how to navigate this human maze. The names he sees now aren't something found on Earth in the twenty first century.

The infirmary is white, just like everything else nowadays, with silver letters etched into the large doors as the only marker telling the room's purpose. There isn't a lot of medical supplies in the traditional sense, but the room is covered in runes for recovery and healing, with soft, floor level beds for angels possessing bodies. He can see the room is only years old, since before the first apocalypse angels rarely took vessels - something that was now a necessity.

Sam feels uncomfortable doing this in front of other angels, but he knows they wouldn't leave him alone with Zuriel. Three siblings is probably the minimum for an illusion of monitoring him, and the maximum they're willing to risk in case he smites them.

He directs Zuriel to take off the jacket his vessel wears on top of a white shirt and sit on the bed, pushing aside the warm blankets before unfurling his wings. Dumah is tense as a taut string and Ishim follows his every move like a hawk, even though they all know Lucifer is practically untouchable.

The relatively young (perhaps three billion years old, but it still seems young to the archangel) angel's wings aren't much better off than Castiel's were, charred and stripped except for some secondary feathers the color of sand.

Sam doesn't stall, but he's as gentle as he can; which isn't much, but he already feels ridiculous, telling Zuriel what he'll do so there's no sudden panic. He still freezes up when he feels Lucifer's grace wrapping around his, having never experienced what it's like or how powerful it is. Fear makes his wings clench up regardless of pain, and Sam makes his Light as soothing as he possibly can.

He starts slower than with his friend, strengthening and calming like he's trying to approach a frightened rabbit. Zuriel is much weaker than Castiel, being a low tier angel, and he feels like he might accidentally crush him if he isn't careful enough.

Soon enough, Zuriel succumbs to his grace and his eyes droop shut while Lucifer slowly starts receding the damage at the roots, wanting to repair as much of the limbs as he can before he has to stop.

Nadiel moves closer to the bed where they sit, looking wide-eyed at her younger sibling and eventually keeping him upright so he doesn't fall back on Sam sitting behind him. He nods at her, keeping his mouth shut so his concentration doesn't break.

Dumah and Ishim stare at him instead, and he can't help but wince under gazes scanning how his grace works, the veins of his soul that stretch out with his light and add to the energy keeping his grace going. They know, and Ishim's eyes are narrowed in suspicion - but they keep quiet and watch him work until Zuriel can't take it anymore and Lucifer stops, stands up from the bed and slowly lowers the angel down so he's laying with his head on a pillow.

“There,” he says, breathless, “His grace needs to settle, then I can reconstruct his wings and he can keep them together. I've done it before; he just needs some R&R.”

Nadiel trails a hand down her brother's vessel, tracing over the restored grace. She looks at Sam with grateful, awed eyes, and he smiles tightly back at her.

He turns to the others - too quickly, and sways on his feet until he has to catch his balance on the wall two steps away. He blinks in befuddlement. Lucifer feels... tired. Not exhausted, but tired enough to know that this isn't normal, that his soul shouldn't be pressing so close to his grace.

The black spots that briefly danced on the edge of his vision disappear and he feels Dumah's hand on his shoulder to steady him. His grace spins back to how it was, interlaced with the colorful strands of his human soul, and he feels okay again.

He straightens up and carefully bundles everything different about himself way inside. Dumah watches him for a moment before carefully bringing it up, like he knew she would. “Did Father give you a soul?”

Did he? He probably did, since the other option is that he gave him grace and a fuckton of daddy issues, and that isn't something he would do for a human. 

He gives Dumah and Ishim a calculated shrug. “Yeah, he did. This vessel is mine, I'm the only one inside it.”

Dean has never brought up the fact that Sam is possessing his own corpse now, but that will probably come up at some point. Dumah studies his face. “It has odd properties.” She comments thoughtfully. The question throws him, and Sam assumes she meant the strange agelessness and features that look distinctly like his True form (but human, despite his sort-of-not-really loopy resemblance to a snake, a fox, or a deer).

“Uh, right, yeah.” He answers awkwardly before checking his internal clock. He's spent an hour here, so he might have time to continue with Zuriel - except by now Cas must have noticed he's gone from the bunker.

Dumah takes a breath. “Thank you, brother.” She says, and it touches him that she's both acknowledged him as a sibling and expressed her gratitude, “This is something that will give our siblings hope for the future.”

Sam gives her a weak half-smile. “That's something not heard often these days, ain't it.” He looks back at Zuriel, almost asleep on the white sheets, eyes lidded and shining sky blue. His grace would look exceptionally healthy if not for the ethereal wings passing through the round bed, still damaged.

Zuriel will need time to recover in piece, so he quietly tells this to Dumah. She nods, then hesitantly considers her next words. “You seem... different than what you were described as.” She starts, “They said you were cruel and selfish. But you don't seem like it.”

Sam feels a grimace twisting his face. “So you weren't at the last get together we had up here?”

Dumah shakes her head. “There wasn't that many present, and I was otherwise occupied.”

Huh. Lucifer thinks back, trying to find differences in the then and now. They're pretty clear now that he remembers. His speech wasn't this direct, this sincere; he liked to wrap it around phrases he knew would cause confusion, he put in arguments that would turn the angels to his side. Everything he did had some benefit to himself. 

It makes him a little sick, and a little more tired of himself, especially since it's a pattern he still falls into. 

Dumah awkwardly steps around him and sits down at Zuriel's side when he doesn't answer her. Ishim holds himself to the side, but he doesn't look at him as if he's judging him anymore. There's a sort of respect in his eyes he didn't have before, and to be honest Lucifer isn't used to respect, anymore. He's used to fear, hatred and occasionally blind devotion, but not this.

It confuses him, so he needs to think it over somewhere else, where he can angst over it without having an audience. “I'll come back in a few hours. Zuriel should wait here so I can start patching him up later.” He says, and Dumah nods to him. Nadiel smiles at him again, but it makes Lucifer uncomfortable, so he turns around and walks away to the slight confusion of the others, making sure they can't see him before he quickly unfolds his wings and flies back to Earth.

He doesn't know why he doesn't want his siblings to see his wings or his soul. Dumah will undoubtedly inform the others about it, and his vessel's heart clenches at the thought. He's different than the others, and once again he doesn't really belong in either group. 

Sam prods the bunker before he lands, circling in the sky above it for a fast-slow moment, his grace-filled eyes flitting over the blue astral world; made of energies, colors and life and unrestricted by physical matter.

Dean is still sleeping, and Castiel's senses zone in on him. He doesn't speak to Sam, seeing his need for privacy, and the archangel lands on the top of the bunker's roof.

The sun has risen, and the chilly morning is rather pleasant, so he dangles his long legs over the edge and loosely folds his wings on his back, leaving them out and enjoying the free feeling it grants him.

He mulls over what he's done. He wants to help his siblings, fix some of the damage he brought on his family - because there's no denying the trouble began with his rebellion. It was the first time angels died in the hundreds, and then the apocalypse, although prevented, led to a civil war that took even more lives. The horrifying events that followed stacked up until Heaven started crumbling.

He can't watch it happen, and the damage is far too great to stop now. He knows that without intervention, Heaven will fall - maybe in a few years, maybe a few decades, but it will.

His siblings aren't the same social, lively beings of light he remembers. They're bitter, broken and dying. He hasn't heard the sound of an angel's laughter or joyous singing in millennia.

They don't treat each other like family. They're just soldiers.

His chest aches. He wants to return Heaven to what it used to be - everyone up there does. And Castiel was right, he's the only free archangel, the only one with the power to do so.

He saw the glimmering hope and joy in Nadiel's eyes, how her dull grace lit up, and he knows that it's possible. He wants to paint that happiness on the face of every sibling he has, every sister and brother. Regardless of what Father wants from him.

“Good morning.” Castiel greets quietly from behind him. Sam startles, feathers puffing up. The seraph gives him a tiny smile and walks towards him, his mostly naked wings folded on his back, silky greyish skin pressed together in an honestly amusing way.

Sam contemplates hiding his own wings again, but Cas saw them already. Besides, it's rather nice having them unfurled like this.

He looks back into the distance, enjoying the view from up high. Castiel sits down on the raised edge of the roof beside him, letting his legs fall down the same way. His wings are just short enough now that they don't touch the ground, while Sam's long primaries trail to the floor and fade into the ground.

They sit in silence for a while before Castiel turns to him. “Why didn't you want to show me?”

Sam's lips thin into a line, but his lack of answer is all Castiel needs to understand. The seraph lifts a hesitant hand and cards his fingers through the dove gray feathers of the archangel's alulae, smoothing them down. Lucifer tenses up immediately, unused to anyone but himself touching his wings, but he doesn't dare stop his brother for the instinctive fear of losing longed-for contact. Castiel carefully reaches further and traces down the bend of his wing towards the slate and sienna feathers. “There's nothing wrong with them,” Castiel tells him, simple and gentle. “I think they're lovely.”

Sam snorts at the frank way Castiel said it and his wings twitch, shaking the seraph off. “They're so...” _Wrong. Not mine. Average, ugly._ He knows it's his vanity saying it, but he can't help it. They scream about his mix of grace and soul - the glowing white of their edges fading into the dull, mottled grey and brown. Admittedly, most angels don't have pure white wings at all, but this is just... “Strange.” He finishes, his face in a frown.

Castiel looks concerned, but Lucifer stabs his grey eyes into the distance. The seraph nudges him. “Where were you?”

“Heaven.”

Castiel's eyes widen, filled with questions. His grace goes from the relaxed golden-green to a panicked reddish purple in a heartbeat.

Lucifer sighs. “I said I wanted to help. See if what I did for you could be done for everyone else.”

The seraph looks curiously at him, full of that vibrant hope. But that's fine, he likes seeing it. “Did you try it with another sibling?” Lucifer nods. “With Zuriel. I'll go back soon.”

Castiel smiles, and underneath his relief is a layer of guilt and self loathing; that he can't fix his own mistakes, that Lucifer is only repairing what Cas caused, and yet the most undeserving of angels had his wings fixed first. The archangel grips Castiel's arm. “Stop that, idiot. You were tricked, it wasn't your fault.”

He glares at him for good measure, and Castiel lets out a rough half-laugh, bitter sounding but good natured.

“You should tell Dean.” Castiel reminds him after Sam lets go of his arm.

“I know. He's gonna be pissed I didn't tell him I was going,” He sighs, running a hand through his hair and tucking a strand that kept getting blown into his face behind his ear.

“Probably.” Castiel says gravelly, and Sam huffs a laugh. Their conversation fades into silence, and they just sit on the roof and watch as the sun crawls up into the sky.

  
Sam stations himself in the kitchen, knowing Dean will come searching for breakfast when he wakes up. Surprisingly, Castiel sits down beside him with his own book so they can read in silence together.

An hour later, a groggy Dean enters as well and sizes them up and down. “Isn't it too early for angel book club?” He yawns while he opens cupboards and takes down a plate.

“We were passing time 'cause we need to talk to you.” Sam said, and Dean set the plate down on the table, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I went to Heaven.” Lucifer tells him. Dean stares, dread making him still. “With genuinely good intentions.” Lucifer adds. Dean heaves a breath and plops down on a chair opposite the archangel.

“When the hell did you go to Heaven?” Dean asks, and Lucifer has to stifle a snort at Dean's ridiculous phrasing and answer. “In the wee hours of the morning.”

Dean grunts and gets up to again fetch himself some toast. After a thought, he pulls open the refrigerator and pulls out two eggs. “Okay, why did you go and what did you do up there?” He asks tiredly.

“For help. I wanted to start healing up their wings.”

Dean stops, frying pan still in hand. “You can fix angel wings?”

Sam blinks. “Oh. Right, we forgot to tell you.” To his defense, Dean was either sleeping or he wasn't at the bunker, or Castiel wasn't in the coherent mindset of speaking.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Explain before I start yelling about how I'm somehow always the last to hear about stuff these days.”  
Sam cringes, but gets on with the explanation. “I tried to heal Cas' wings yesterday, and it's going pretty well, so I thought I'd pop upstairs and fix the others too. I need to go back in two hours.”

Dean slowly nods, and then looks at Castiel with fond interest. “So, you can fly again?” Castiel smiles, but shakes his head. “Not yet. When my feathers grow back I will.”

Dean grins, the first moderately real grin in Dad knows how long. “Awesome.”

Castiel smiles back at him, his Light turning into that happy mix of amber and forest green. Sam looks between them in suspicion. “Uh huh.”

Dean coughs and goes back to the stove to crack some eggs. “Anyway. Sam, how'd they take it when you showed up?” He stumbles over the name again, since old-Sam kind of has nothing to do with any of this, but LuciferSam chooses not to notice. Or pretends not to.

“Terrified, but Dumah seems happy about this, and so does Nadiel. A healer.” He adds when Dean raises a confused eyebrow. Castiel looks at him. “Who else was there?”

“Hm, about thirty in the meeting room, but only Dumah, Ishim, Nadiel and Zuriel came with me to the infirmary.”

Castiel's eyes widen. “Ishim? He was my commander before I was promoted.”

Lucifer hums. “What's he like?”

The seraph cringes. “He is a traditionalist. He used to like humans, but his views on them are very poor now... despite that he was always fair to my garrison.”

He thinks back to the suspicious, narrowed eyes on Ishim's face when he saw Sam's soul and wonders what made Ishim hate what he used to like. Not that it matters much - if they sent him with Dumah for protection in case Lucifer felt like smiting someone, then he must have been a capable fighter.

Dean comes to sit down beside them with crispy toast (since when do they have a toaster?) and scrambled eggs. Lucifer watches the yellow sludge with disgust, so Dean narrows his eyes at him until he stops looking. How on earth he ever stood the taste and let that mush slide down to his stomach is still a subject that greatly confuses him.

Castiel wears a thoughtful expression. “Will you tell the Host about your... identity? This isn't something you can hide for long.”

“Dumah probably told everyone I have a soul already.”

“This is different. They should know, brother. They might trust you more if they understood.” Castiel presses, Dean almost chokes when he addresses Sam as a brother, and Sam frowns. “They might trust me _less_ , Cas. It's not like I had the best reputation up there as a Winchester. I might be seen as double evil now.”

Dean smirks at this, but he doesn't comment on their notoriety throughout the various planes of existence.

Their conversation lapses into silence, and Sam internally broods over Heaven while Dean eats and Castiel reads his book.

  
He doesn't have the first conversation about his past with Dean - it would take too long with his time limit for Zuriel, and he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the angel if he just had a heavy, overly emotional dialogue with his older-young brother.

As soon as he can, he slips away and flies up to Heaven, landing silently two figurative corners away from the infirmary, the same place he left from. 

While Ishim is nowhere to be seen, Dumah is still there, as is Nadiel, speaking with the recovering angel on the bed. Zuriel's excitement is tinted by nervousness when Lucifer walks through the open door, but there isn't much fear left. There was no animosity in the archangel's grace before, and it pushed Zuriel into feeling safe.

“Hey.” Lucifer greets casually. Dumah and Nadiel straighten up to properly greet him, and he nods his head back at them. “Let's skip the small talk this time, okay?” He asks. “I'd rather do it afterwards.”

He's avoiding questions and explanations, but... well. He can do it later. With a sigh, he takes his place with Zuriel.

“Alright, kiddo,” He starts, quickly examining the wings Zuriel keeps unfurled. “This part is complicated, and you're gonna need to help me so it works, 'kay? I'll talk, you listen and try to follow.”

Nadiel hesitantly moves closer. “Can I help with anything?”

Lucifer contemplates the offer before nodding. “Maybe. This is sort of a team effort, so just listen while I work on Zuriel's wings.”

He takes a deep breath before he starts leading the others through the long process, knitting his grace and the angel's together to form the flesh and skin on his sandy wings.

If working on Castiel was like working on a bird of prey, this is more akin to handling a fragile songbird - a rather accurate description of their True forms' size difference. Nadiel proves herself useful by helping the seraph and measuring Lucifer's grace so that he doesn't accidentally overdose him, as well as helping the wings shape properly. It makes Sam wonder if he didn't screw up Cas' wings somewhere.

Over the hours flying by of tedious work requiring constant concentration it becomes tiring. His grace is strained like human fingers are after working with needles and pins for hours, but Zuriel looks far better. A bit like a plucked chicken, but with Nadiel and Heaven's soothing energy combined, his wings would start sprouting flight worthy feathers before they could finish stabilizing his grace.

By the end, Zuriel's vessel shakes with effort, Nadiel's already damaged grace is frayed, and Lucifer would love to simply lay down on the pillow behind him.

When he finally stops and retreats his taxed light back, Zuriel awkwardly spins around and looks at him with joyful, dazed eyes. “Thank you!” He gasps into his face, grinning like a fledgling, so Lucifer can't find it in himself to care. He's also far too tired to be angry.

Dumah leans closer, staring at the smooth skin of restored limbs, unconsciously rolling her vessel's shoulders. “This is...” She whispers, trying to find words. It's all getting a bit corny to Lucifer, who would love to take a break and get on with healing, so he grunts and swings his legs over the bed.

Dumah seems like she wants to say something nice and respectful, but he can't focus on anything but standing back up. His limbs feel heavier than they should be.

He pushes himself up and feels his blood erupt in his head, freezing and hot. His soul feels like it's shuddering. Black spots are everywhere, strange colors swimming over his eyes. He can hear Dumah saying something to him, but it's muted and garbled together.

He shakes his head, trying to blink away the darkness overtaking his vision and settling on his grace like a heavy blanket, but it stubbornly persists. He's so exhausted.

 _This can't be right_ , he thinks dumbly right before he feels his knees hit the ground and Heaven's white walls fade away.

***

[Samifer reference sheet](https://sta.sh/08ljsutr44d)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a little catalogue of angels who appear in the series after season 11 and before, and I'm using their characters as I see fit, along with new characters that will all be playing an important role.  
> I'm going to give a lot of second chances and explore characters that I feel have a lot of potential, especially Dumah. I believe she was a good person willing to risk a lot for the host, and her more questionable actions were desperate. So goes for others, too. Eventually even Chuck will be shown as moderately alright, even if he is a dead beat dad who's been at the top for too long. Amara is gonna get him in order again now that she's here, like a big sister.


	10. It Is Your Present And Your Past That Bind You

“Cash or credit, sir?”

Dean turns back to the cashier, a young, acne-speckled teenager and smiles, pulling out his wallet and reaching for a couple bills to the right of his many maxed out credit cards.

The food supplies he got are accompanied by a six pack he hoists up with one muscled arm to carry it back to the impala. His alcohol consumption spiked in the last weeks (like it usually does during hard times) and he knows he should start toning it down. After all, Sam won't help him drink all that beer.

Their situation, or rather Sam's change of species makes itself known in too many aspects of their life; money is one of them. A lot less is spent on food now that it's just Dean.

Because he's the only human in the bunker now, angel is the majority. He sighs.

“Hello, Squirrel.”

He jerks and snaps his eyes towards the front of his car. A familiar, short demon is leaning against the hood of the impala, wearing the same tailored black suit as he always does.

“Crowley.” Dean grumbles dismissively before walking straight past the King of Hell and opening the back door so he can set the groceries and beer down on the leather seats. He can practically feel the demon's frown on his back, but he really can't give a damn about it, not now.

“You might want to listen, Winchester. This isn't exactly a social call.” 

Dean internally lets out a tired groan, but he shuts the door and props himself on the roof with an elbow.   
A part of him is still reminded who he's speaking to after all these years, but both Sam and Dean stopped being scared of the smarmy demon long ago, only wary of what his motives are. And peeved, but their relationship with Crowley is truly something odd to behold. The more time passes, the more he's certain Crowley is more fond of the Winchesters than should be allowed a guy ruling Hell.

“Yeah?” He asks.

Crowley stands up and straightens, which doesn't make him seem much taller but whatever. “Indeed. I'm here to ask you two flannel-laden morons if you've gotten to our newest problem yet?” 

Dean looks blankly at him. There's lots of problems weighing him down right now, so Crowley will need to be a little more specific. The demon rolls his eyes in exasperation. “The devil, Dean. The one that's roaming free again.” 

Oh. Crowley doesn't know. Dean doesn't want to tell him either. “...Right, yeah.”

The demon raises an expectant eyebrow, oblivious to the way Dean tenses up, or at least to the reasons for it. “Well? You boys are usually the ones dealing with villains, but dearest Lucy could be a great deal of trouble if he decides the throne looks comfy. Have you concocted any brilliant solutions?”

Dean honestly doesn't know what to say, and Crowley is a good enough liar to easily tell when someone's trying to fool him. “No, not yet.” He says at last. “He's been flying under the radar.” 

Crowley levels him with a _look_. “I see.” He turns his nose up and takes a step away, smoothing down his suit. “I hope you two know what you're doing, Dean,” he says with his rough, accented voice, making it clear he can see through him. His eyes are calculating, and Dean dreads whatever the demon is planning. “See you around.” 

With that, he vanishes into thin air exactly the way he came. Dean lets out a relieved breath and starts Baby towards home.

Sam - Lucifer - is most likely in Heaven, healing up an angel. He said it might take hours, and if he moved on to another angel even longer, but he would come back to talk as soon as he could. 

Dean is tripping over it constantly.

His brother is an angel (the devil, for Christ's sake), and he's flown off to Heaven to assist his siblings, responsible for a great number of terrible things that have happened in the past, but he wants to, because they're his brothers and sisters. Dean isn't his only brother anymore, and he isn't exactly older.

Dean grips the leather tighter.

He comes back to the bunker and takes his time putting the groceries away, before he decides he needs to release some of the stress and puts on a short sleeved shirt and sweat pants. 

The bunker's gym is well equipped, if a little obsolete, and perfect for the workouts the brothers (used to) cram in between hunts - hunting alone doesn't keep up the kind of top physical condition they need to be in to effectively fight, and they haven't been doing much hunting lately. Apparently, Dean is now the only one who has to work to keep the pudge off, since the other inhabitants of the bunker neither eat nor change at all. And well, Dean does drink a lot.

Dean pushes himself until he sweats through his clothes, expelling his anger, frustration and sadness through physical exercise. It does him good, and when he goes up to take a quick shower he feels better about the day.

He's better prepared for the conversations he and Sam made a deal about, Lucifer's history that Dean both wants to know and dreads hearing about.

He's seen horrible things both on earth and in hell, so he has plenty material to draw from when he thinks about what the archangel might have done.

It's hard to even start thinking about the Cage, since it makes his eyes sting when he's alone and viciously hate Lucifer with all he has, and yet he mustn't rage at him about it. Because he'd be raging at Sam too, and that is the one thing Dean is always tender about, always giving Sam space if he wants to talk about it.

When nothing is there to distract him, he wonders what this new person feels about it. How he sees it, if he thinks about it.

Dean knows they need to talk about it. And he'll ask; after he tells him about Crowley, after they discuss Heaven, maybe after he knows everything else about the archangel-human fusion.

*

It had been over eight hours since LuciferSam left for Heaven, and Dean is getting nervous. Saying he's worried feels... wrong, but he can't deny his chest feels tighter. He paces around the war room, listens to Metallica and searches for potential hunts.

Castiel seems concerned too, since he expected _his older brother_ to notify him, but that hasn't happened. He reads a book, staying on one page for too long and rolling his shoulders. When Dean asks him about that, Cas only mumbles something about 'pin feathers' and goes quiet again.

Dean tries to read too, but the book won't hold his attention and he keeps getting lost and having to reread paragraphs, so he gives up and furiously shuts it. “Can you check what's up with him?” He asks Castiel.

The angel grimaces. “Lucifer's grace was severed from angel radio, so I can't reach him across dimensions. I could ask Dumah, if she answers me.”

“Then ask, Cas.” Dean says. “He's been gone too long, and I don't want a repeat of... two weeks ago.” When Sam flew away and went awol for _four days_ before showing up on the bunker's door in new clothes, looking literally nothing like Dean's little brother.

Castiel hesitantly nods and closes his eyes, going into his statue mode while he converses in his head (or grace, Cas explained it a little bit years ago, but Dean doesn't understand the mechanics). He's still for a while and his forehead furrows, first in focus, then in worry.

“Cas?” Dean asks quietly, feeling like he's interrupting a telephone call. The angel opens his eyes, but he's still listening intently, wearing a tense expression that makes Dean panic.

He waits until Castiel finishes the conversation and looks at him. “Sam is in the infirmary.” Cas says gravely.

Dean frowns in confusion. “You said that's where he treats angels.” 

Castiel shakes his head and stands up. “He does, but that's not it. He collapsed after a healing hours ago and fell unconscious. He still hasn't woken up.”

Dean blinks. Is that even possible? He's never seen an archangel faint, and Sam didn't talk about healing as something that was insanely hard for him. Angels never made healing look hard, barely a touch on a forehead.

He feels concern for the part of the archangel that is Sam. “Why did he collapse?” He asks. Castiel sighs through his nose. “Dumah isn't sure, but she mentioned his soul. Apparently Lucifer has been exhausting it somehow, and it couldn't take the strain.”

Dean stares, the gears in his head turning. Angels could use human souls as an energy source, he knows that. Like a temporary power boost. And Lucifer is an archangel who has a soul to himself now, one that he probably isn't fond of since it makes him more human. More emotional, more Sam-like. It forces him to have a conscience, something he made clear he loathes. 

It's also the only thing he still has that is Sam Winchester, and Dean is pretty damn attached to it.

His face twists in rage. “That son of a bitch.” He half whispers, half growls. “Dammit!” He yells, standing up and grabbing at his hair. Is Lucifer trying to erase what he has of Sam? Do what Dean can't, except he's doing the opposite? Get himself back?

Dean can't let that happen. He can't permanently loose everything he has left of Sam, the only reason why he would let that megalomaniac keep prancing around the world.

Castiel tries to calm him down. “Dean, I'm certain he didn't do it on purpose. He wouldn't want to.”

Dean's breathing is shaky. This is Sam's soul they're talking about. “Cas, if he's trying to get rid of Sam- _Jesus_ , I'm gonna kill him. What if he just destroyed his soul?! What if he comes back here and he's just...” _Just Lucifer_.

Castiel shakes his head and sets a hand on Dean's shoulder. “I'm sure he didn't. I was in his head, I know he didn't.”

Dean doesn't calm down, not even when he stops yelling.

He chose not to search for a way to kill Lucifer before - one, because it was supposedly impossible; and two, because of Sam, and he could never kill his little brother. If it was Sammy, it no longer mattered whether he was human or not, the sole exception to Dean's black and white view of the supernatural.

But this was the last fucking straw.

If he was losing Sam because of him, he would find a way to either lock him up or tear him apart and he wouldn't stop until he was done.

And Dean was just learning to live with him after that moment they had. After he proved he was still Sam somewhere and just needed some help to be better. Why Dean kept buying it is the question of the year. It looks stupid even to himself.

Cas sits him down and goes on explaining how Lucifer wouldn't try to get rid of his soul, that it was impossible and would most likely kill him, how he doesn't want to do it. Dean doesn't listen, so Cas eventually gives up, and tells him Dumah vaguely knows that they're living on earth together with the archangel now.

Dean doesn't really think about that; he's never cared much about angels. 

  
He simmers and stews in fury and depression until after more than an hour, he hears the quiet flap of wings in Sam's old room. The fact that the guy landed in it pisses him off even more, and the chair scrapes the floor when he shoots up and storms towards it.

He rounds the corner just as Lucifer comes - stumbles? - out of the bedroom, hair hanging low over his face. Dean literally rams toward him, completely uncaring of how powerful the archangel is or what he can do to Dean, and grabs him by the shirt to press him against the wall.

Lucifer offers no resistance at all, and Dean holds his scarecrow frame up against the stone like a ragdoll. He doesn't think about that right now. “What the hell did you do to Sam's soul?!” He snarls. Lucifer wheezes something incoherent into his face, and Dean stops for a moment to actually look at him.

He looks like crap, no way around that. There's dark circles under his upturned, bloodshot eyes, contrasting like purplish bruises on his pale skin. He slowly lifts his face up, and Dean realizes he's close enough to count the tiny hazel and blue flecks speckled in his washed out, grey irises.

“Dean, let him go.” Castiel says, walking towards them and looking at Lucifer in concern. Dean is stunned enough to obey, but when he drops him Lucifer's knees buckle and he stumbles forward, forcing the hunter to catch him.

There's a horribly awkward moment of struggle before Lucifer stands normally (actually he might be swaying in place) and Dean dusts himself off to get rid of the chill. 

Now that he's upright, Dean's anger comes back and he interrogates the devil with all he has. “Did you _use_ Sam's soul?! Did you damage it?!”

Lucifer leans back against the wall and lets out a tired sigh. “No.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “If you're fucking lying to me-”

“I'm not.” Lucifer interrupts. He looks like he's about to fall to the side, but Dean really doesn't care right now. If he did it to himself it's his fault. “I don't know what happened. I'm just... really tired.”

Castiel points to the bedroom he just walked out of. “Sit down or you might collapse again.” Lucifer just gives a shaky nod and goes back in, which is probably one of the most worrying things after the state of his soul. Castiel looks at Dean. “His soul is whole. It's just... it looks wilted. I've seen it before, I know what it is.”

Then he steps through the door, making Dean follow him. The resident archangel sits with his back against the headboard, keeping his eyes open. Cas wastes no time, quickly summing up what he figured out. “He needs to sleep.” He deadpans. “All souls do. He's been able to keep it going with just his grace until now, but now that he's taxing it with complex healing what he hasn't been doing has come back with a vengeance.”

Dean frowns. “So like coffee or adrenaline shots instead of sleep.”

Castiel slowly nods. “I suppose.”

It actually makes sense, and Dean feels a bit sorry for yelling. When Sam was soulless, he didn't sleep, and angels didn't do it either. 

“It's been two weeks.” Dean says skeptically. Castiel shrugs. “I doubt he needs that much sleep.”

He turns to Lucifer, who hopefully paid attention to what they were saying. He looks like he did. “So... I have to sleep now.” He rasps, not looking nearly as upset by that fact as Dean thought he would be, given the poorly hidden disgust for most human biological processes.

Lucifer hums. “I'm probably gonna be pissed about this later, but right now sleep actually sounds appealing. Huh.” Dean hopes Lucifer isn't reading his mind again.

The archangel slides downwards until he's laying down and stares at the ceiling, his head sinking slightly into the pillow. “It's creepy if you watch me, you pervs.” He states flatly. Then he turns his head at them, both standing awkwardly in the room, and gives them Sam's patented bitch face, which comes off even more pronounced on this face. “So kindly get out of my room while I attempt to pass out, would you?”

Dean rolls his eyes and leaves, pulling Castiel with him. He shuts the door behind himself and walks down the hall, his anger slowly ebbing away and leaving him tired. Lucifer has brought an emotional rollercoaster with him since day one, and Dean constantly feels exhausted.

He wonders if it's his fault and this will eventually get better, or Lucifer is just a shitty, energy-draining person. He's pretty sure it's a mix of the two.

Dean settles on getting himself a beer and leaning on the counter while he drinks it. Castiel sighs and joins him. “He, ah, he finished healing Zuriel.” Castiel tells him. “I'm certain the entire host felt his excitement, so Zuriel must have told everyone.” Dean looks curiously as his friend smiles into the distance, nostalgic and peaceful.

“The Host is brighter,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “They're wary of course, they aren't sure what to make of all this, but Sam planted the first seeds of hope.”

Dean falls quiet, thinking about all this. He knows he can be oblivious and it bites him in the ass sometimes, but he has his perceptive side as well. From the way Lucifer and Cas talk about Heaven and siblings, it's clear they haven't always been at each other's throats. There had to have been a time when those guys were family.

“I don't like this,” He admits. “It feels like Sam's getting used. His guilt complex - cause let's be honest, he has one - dumped with all the crap Lucifer's done... I don't want Sammy fixing his mistakes. It doesn't feel right.”

Castiel presses his lips together. “It's not. It's not fair to Sam, and I never once believed that Lucifer deserved redemption. But there's no going back, so getting as much good from this as possible is all we can do.”

Dean doesn't answer. He knows Cas is right, and this is probably a good thing (it's not), but he doesn't want to clean up Chuck's messes or let Sam deal with the fallen archangel's past. 

It's still a lot, even after weeks. It's exhausting him, and he feels like he's getting run into the ground bit by bit. He wants a break from all of it, but it's not as if the thoughts would stop haunting him even if he moved to Alaska.

He wonders if this is just as exhausting for Sam as it is for him. After all, _he's_ the one actually going through it. He's never explained to Dean what this actually feels like, the transition of 'two people to one person', and Dean has never really asked. Half of him also changed species, but that seemed to be the smallest problem.

Dean was and is still only interested in the Sam part of the fusion, mostly about his emotions regarding Dean, Cas and this planet. Because why the hell would he be worried about the devil. Except Sam is the devil. And Dean does worry.

*

Dean goes to check up on him in the morning after he wakes up. There was no sound from Sam's room in the evening, so they left him alone to rest. 

He slowly, carefully opens the room. Dean had gotten more used to the cold that follows his brother, especially if he stays in one place too long, and true to his expectations the room is freezing like he stepped outside on a winter day.

Sam is curled up on his side clutching his pillow and breathing deeply. His eyes are closed, and with his face smushed up against the fabric, the sharp contours are less obvious. He looks peaceful. Innocent. 

Dean shakes his head. Sleeping makes everyone look younger and purer than they actually are, this shouldn't hurt so much.

He stays for a few moments longer, biting his lips, before he sighs and turns on his heel. Dean freezes in the doorstep when LuciferSam suddenly sighs and mumbles something intelligible that doesn't sound English, but he just flops on his back and doesn't blink open his eyes, so Dean lets go of the breath he was holding and escapes as quietly as he can.

He doesn't think about how human the archangel seemed right then.

  
Dean can hear the shower turn on around noon and makes the conclusion Lucifer is awake (he files away the shower question for later. He still doesn't understand why the archangel enjoys them so much, but Castiel did as well so maybe it's an angel thing).

He strolls into the war room fifteen minutes later looking like he always does (is constant outfits also an angel thing? He remembers Sam's get-up shifted a little at first before he settled on this one) and sitting down at the table with him.

“'Morning.” Lucifer greets. Dean raises an eyebrow. “It's way past morning. Did you get your beauty sleep?”

The archangel gives him the stink eye. “Yes.” He sighs through his nose. “Sleeping is a thing now. I really hope I won't have to miss a third of my eternity like you guys do. That'd be a bummer.”

“Cas said probably not. If you lasted two weeks 'til now.”

Lucifer hums in thought, and Dean takes the chance to tell him about the previous day. “Crowley dropped by yesterday,” He says, and Lucifer perks up in curiosity. “He's suspicious. He knows I was lying when I said I didn't know anything. And,” he cringes. “I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say he holds a grudge against you.”

The archangel looks at the wall, and Dean has to wonder what his views on what he did to Crowley are now. Degrading the crossroads demon by chaining him up and treating him like a dog is a few steps too far for Dean, and definitely would have been miles too far for Sam. Lucifer's expression is unreadable.

“I don't like him,” he ends up saying, his melodious voice turning ice cold. “He's been working against me for years, he took my position and he's a double-faced bitch.” His eyes narrow, which honestly just makes him look more villainous, not that Dean will tell him that right now. “And he's just smart enough to be dangerous, especially with Rowena.”

Dean doesn't want to feel shaky, but he kind of does. “So... you _want_ to rule Hell?”

LuciferSam's expression turns into a mesh between constipated and confused. His arms twitch like he wants to hug them around himself, but he forces himself to keep sitting. “Um...” He starts, and his face goes hopeless.

“I don't know. I'll probably be too busy with Heaven for a while, and it's not like Hell is a nice place. I hate it and it's where I was caged, I never actually got the chance to rule it until six years ago.” He grips the table, and his expression goes dark, along with something cruel and conceited that is as far from Sam as anything could possibly be. 

“But it's _mine_.” He hisses, and the hunter edges away from him. Lucifer isn't looking at him, and Dean thinks he might be going off on a rant. 

“ _I_ was the Punishment, _I_ had the original idea for it, and _I_ created the demons. The throne is rightfully mine.” Dean didn't understand everything he just said, but this is a situation he wants to get the hell away from. Luckily, Lucifer deflates after he gets that off his chest. “I was supposed to rule it even as Sam, but I hated that thought through and through. I don't think I wanna be in charge of Hell anymore.” He growls. “But I sure as hell won't tolerate that imbecile ruling it either.”

Then he leans back, crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Dean like he's waiting for his reaction. Mostly the nonchalant 'what are you gonna say now, human' but with the nervous undertones of fear, like Dean's judgment is something painful - a sight Dean finds familiar.

“Okay.” Dean says quietly, and it's _not okay_. It's pretty far from fine, but at least Lucifer isn't about to storm hell to take over.

Lucifer can clearly see this, and something behind his eyes crumples even if he's still sitting there like he owns the place, right leg crossed over his knee. “Uh, should we start with the history overview? I need to go back up later.”

Dean takes a deep breath and nods, eager to change the topic. “Yeah, sure.” He thinks for a bit. “Maybe start at the beginning?”

The archangel slowly nods. “Alright.” He takes another breath and lets silence take over for a moment, searching for the best way to start. His story telling begins clinically, just a recounting of facts, leaving his references and witty remarks behind for a while so the telling is more efficient.

“You already know Michael was the first archangel. He's the rough model of everything Dad wanted from an angel. Loyal, carries out whatever orders Dad gives him, leads in his name.” Lucifer raises his arms, gesturing along with his words. “What you gotta understand is that Dad was different back then. He wasn't a writer, he was this... artist with too much vision. He sculpted the four of us knowing exactly what he wanted from us; and originally that was to help defeat his sister. We're way more powerful than other angels and we don't need Heaven as a power lifeline because Dad gave every one of us a piece of himself, and that's not something to sneeze at. It was taxing and took ages.”

Dean blinks. If he wasn't resilient about this heaven and hell stuff by now, this would be hard to take in. “He, uh, he said it was, yeah.”

Lucifer shrugs, twitching his fingers. “I'm the second one, and me and Mike are very close in power, but we differ a lot in how we look. Dad was... refining the design with me.” Lucifer looks away from Dean, like this is something both painful and embarrassing. Dean scrunches up his face. “Weren't you. Uh, weren't you really pretty or something?”

Lucifer looks like he's flushing, and to be honest so is Dean. This did not come out the way he wanted it to.

“...Yeah.” Eventually answers the archangel. “I didn't know it at first, but somewhere along the line, _much_ later, I became the beauty standard.” He clears his throat. “I was... white, I guess. No colour, just the blue of my grace and light. You know how the halls of Heaven are all stark white?”

Dean nods.

“White has always meant purity. Divinity. It's also insanely boring.”

Dean cocks his head to the side, thinking. Other than the seriously racist vibes he's getting, something bugs him. “You used past tense. As in, you _used_ to be your 'gorgeous white self.'”

Lucifer tenses up like a deer in the headlights. “Uh, aha. That's not part of the beginning though, so lets get back to that.” And that was the most obvious, crude avoidance of his looks he could try, Dean thinks. He read up a lot on the devil in the past, and while sources clashed on almost everything more often than not, his infamous vanity was a whole topic - 'God's most beautiful angel'. He still isn't sure whether or not there's any truth in the many books about him, and he doesn't know what to trust - hell, he barely trusts Lucifer to tell him what actually happened.

“After I was created, Michael and Dad raised me. Mostly Michael, though.” Lucifer licks his lips, and he voice turns softer. “I loved him. Idolized him actually. I loved Dad, too.”

Dean immediately thinks back to the future Zachariah sent him to all those years ago. Exactly what future Lucifer told him while he wore his younger brother, dressed in a pure white suit (and does that make a little more sense now?). The Lucifer in front of him doesn't remember that - from his perspective it never happened. But Dean needs to know whether, if it would have come to pass, the devil lied to his face. He can't deny he sounds a hundred times more sincere, more vulnerable now.

He looks like he misses the times he's talking about.

“After me came Raphael. She latched on to Michael too, but we taught her everything we knew together. She was gentle and kind and we were both curious, both scholars.”

Dean blinks. “She?”

Lucifer nods, tilting his head in the birdlike motion all angels seem fond of. “None of us have genders, but we can have preferences. Most of the time, we take the pronouns of our vessels, and Raphael chose her True vessel to be a female. Raphael was taking vessels from her bloodline, but I guess she hadn't been born yet.”

This bugs him, and Dean can't really explain why. It's another thing separating him from humanity, from the physical world in general. “So you don't have a gender.” He says slowly. “Even though you have a soul?”

Lucifer shrugs, like this isn't weird or news or anything out of the normal at all, which Dean guesses is true, but is still throwing him. “I don't. Souls don't have them either. We existed way before the concept of genders and trust me, it's fairly new. We weren't a 'them' or an 'it'. The Enochian language doesn't include pronouns and all that useless crap you insist on. The reason why it exists is just so reproduction would be easier, not so you could invent sexism.”

Dean can't help but give a small smile at the way he's clearly disapproving. Regardless of his flirty habits and the way he picks up women, he agrees that using gender as an excuse to paint someone as less or as weak is ridiculous. 

Lucifer smiles, lost in thought and history long past. “When I look back now, I probably would have been considered feminine. Both in shape, voice and in name. If Michael went the other way, I probably would have, too.”

Dean suddenly _looks_ at him, trying to take him in with fresh eyes, and... well. His face has lost the strong jawbones and cleft chin he used to have, and his upturned eyes, framed by dark eyelashes stand out on his narrow face. His entire shape is narrow; elegant and lean - but not particularly masculine. _Oh_. 

Sam isn't a _guy_. His brain feels like it's been through the wringer, and he can barely keep one train of thought going for long before it derails with a new realization. Like right now. “Wait, your name? I dunno, Lucifer doesn't seem like a girl's name to me.”

Is he thinking too much inside of his human perspective box? Do angels view names differently?

Lucifer shifts in discomfort, and his lips thin into a line. “Lucifer isn't my original name, Dean.”

And there goes Dean's brain crashing like a plane flying at its highest velocity straight into a mountain. Because apparently, Lucifer's name isn't actually Lucifer, or at least it wasn't. “What's your name then?” He asks, or croaks since the archangel gives him a concerned glance before he goes shifty.

Then he mumbles something and Dean has to strain and lean forward, but he doesn't catch it. “What?”

Lucifer looks him in the eyes, and for some reason they're glassy, both studying the hunter's expression and thinking of history that happened eons before Dean was born. “Heylel.” He says, and his voice is loud and clear. “My name used to be Heylel, and it meant Bright one. I changed it billions of years after, because I wanted my title to be my name. Because Dad called me his Lightbringer.”

Dean blinks again. “Heylel.” He says, testing how it feels on his tongue. It's soft and gentle and despite the similar meanings it seems completely different. He looks at the face staring at him and tries to put the name to it.

He thinks that if he called him that enough... it would fit. It would go well with the wide, shining grey eyes, the long brown hair. “Huh... Heylel.” He says again, looking at the archangel.

Lucifer's face twists and he jerks away from Dean. “Alright, you can stop saying it now. That's not who I am now. That was my name when I was... pure. Without the Mark's influence.” He sighs. “We went off topic again.”

Dean nods and files the name away for later. It seems like a sore spot, and he wants to prod. Maybe he can ask Cas.

“Anyway. After Raphael, Father made Gabriel.” He says his name quietly, and pain flashes through his eyes. “He was like I was with Michael. Stuck to me like glue, and I loved him just as much. I taught him so many things... he had that prankster streak because of me.” He smiles, looking down at the map illuminated under the table. Then he shakes his head and moves on, jumping further in time and away from what he clearly misses but doesn't want to feel.

“After Amara was out of the picture, Dad got busy. He made different dimensions, experimented, got us working on Heaven... after Leviathans, he made other angels too. But by then, he wasn't a dad to them, he was the Lord. Hierarchy became a thing, with ranks and jobs. The Cherubim are the smallest, roughly the size of... I guess a house? The standard, skyscraper-sized angels share traits too; the Watchers, Rit Zien and the Seraphim.”

That's interesting to know, but it's not what Dean is curious about. Maybe Lucifer doesn't want to talk about the personal things, about his old name and personality in the very beginning, when he was happy. Except that's the stuff Dean needs to know; to see the reactions the archangel has when he speaks about them. That tells Dean a whole lot more than rattled off information.

“Okay, so you were all made for a purpose, right?”

Sam nods. Dean leans backwards. “So what was your job? What was it that you did every day for literal eons?” Dean, no matter how hard he tries, still can't imagine living that long. Existence had to be a drag.

Lucifer scrunches up his face in that way that always makes Dean's hair stand up. “Um, we had different duties. Number one was keeping Upstairs together. We were the four pillars of the Host's shared mind, or what you call angel radio. We trained, taught, handed out duties, organized, made sure stuff went smoothly. There was always more work to do.”

“What about free time? Didn't you have hobbies or stuff you liked to do?”

The archangel sighs. “Dean, we don't think the same way. Doing what Father tells you to do was- _is_ the most rewarding feeling you can get. It's all that mattered.” Dean swallows, and Lucifer goes on. “We could have free time, it's just that we didn't yearn for it all that much, especially not the newer angels. But we had domains, and doing anything with them was the most satisfactory thing you can imagine.”

Dean blinks in confusion, and he takes it as a cue to keep explaining. “The archangels had differing powers. My domain was Light, and later I was also granted dominion over Knowledge. I was the one to create the division of intelligence angels, and I was looking over Heaven's Archives.”

Dean stares. He can't reconcile the image of a... _bookish_ archangel with the creepy warrior one that he met years ago - and yet it reminds him of Sam. Even though the younger Winchester was raised for the fight, used to violence, he had a constant thirst for new knowledge. Dean used to find him in libraries, buried nose-deep in books, sighed at the library cards Sam got made every time they moved so he could borrow new tomes. And then Sam made the decision and went to college - something Dean should have predicted, really.

Lucifer continues, swiftly changing the subject by branching out. “Michael was a soldier, he trained the armies. The seraphim and malakhim. Not that we didn't all fight, but it was his specialty. He wasn't that interested in the intricacies of the Universe - honestly he was a lot like you. Brave and protective,” he smirks at Dean. “But not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

Dean gives him a flat look. “Thank you, it means a lot.”

“Always happy to give out compliments. Now, Raphael was a healer, and the leader of the Rit Zien. She was hardworking and gentle,” Lucifer smiles to himself. “But when she got pissed, she gave ranting a whole new meaning.”

Dean frowns. “Uh, not how I remember... her. Maybe 'maniac with a tendency to explode things' fits more?”

Lucifer scowls at him, defensive. “That's not her. Not how she was meant to be. I don't know what happened, but Raphael was never like that before.”

Dean nods, leaving the subject alone. Then he carefully looks at his angelic brother and asks something he knows is gonna be hard. “What about Gabriel? Not just his domains. I'm sure he wasn't always into pornstars.”

Lucifer starts chewing on his lip. “He had... command over the cherubim and the choirs of Heaven. He liked singing. He was...” Lucifer's breath is getting shaky quicker than Dean thought it could happen. Faster than Sam ever got emotional, faster than Lucifer. “Passionate. Lively... Getting him to stop talking took about as much effort as moving mountains bare-handed.” 

His eyes are glistening silver. Why wasn't he like this about Michael? Or Raphael?

 _Hey, Luci. I'm home_.

Lucifer stands up and turns his face away from the table until Dean can't see his eyes. “We've talked long enough. Dumah is probably wondering what happened, and I should get back to healing. I'm barely at two angels.”

Then he takes two quick steps away from the table, opens wings Dean can't see but assumes are white, and disappears with a rush of wind.

Dean doesn't know what he wanted to achieve. He never expected Lucifer would break down in front of him again, so the only thing he caused was pain and a cut off conversation. 

Maybe he wanted to see the guilt, the grief. See if Lucifer felt the pain of losing a little brother he loved. A little brother he raised.   
After all, there's not that much difference, really; except Dean didn't murder his own brother. And Lucifer didn't need to watch Gabriel change for the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another reason for why I changed his looks! I wanted his face to be a bit gender neutral heh.
> 
> Lucifer isn't originally his name at all, since it refers so someone else and is actually Latin. I know in Lucifer tv they chose Samael (which according to some books actually was a fallen angel), but I'm quite fond of the Heylel theory, even if it's actually a Hebrew word ( הֵילֵל aka hêylêl, [hay-lale]) too. All the angel names were taken from other religions or inspired anyway and all are modernized so... free real estate.


	11. Use Kind Words, Or Be Silent

He flies alone for a while. With the angels grounded for now, he can have the astral plane all to himself, other than the incorporeal reapers flitting around on the lower levels.

Lucifer goes higher, breaching the Earth's atmosphere and soaring above the ozone layer. Hesitantly, he unfurls all three pairs of his wings - each one smaller than the one above it - from his grace and twists around, somersaulting and spinning like he can shake off the sadness.

It doesn't work, but his reckless maneuvering requires concentration, so he focuses on his flight instead of Gabriel and his antics when they were in Heaven, trying out ridiculous moves and knocking each other out of the celestial sky.

He strains his limbs until they hurt and levels his flight into peaceful soaring, angling himself to Heaven - not that he couldn't breach into the higher dimension from anywhere, but he wants to calm down before he gets back to Dumah.

He makes sure to appear in an empty corridor and pulls his wings back into himself before he turns to the infirmary - except it's clear there's no angelic grace present in its vicinity. When he stretches his sight to catch wind of her, he finds her in the large meeting room with a flight of other angels.

He sighs and starts walking towards it. He can't fly in the narrow hallways, as unlike Earth's fully physical walls, this part of Heaven is on a plane allowing matter and grace to exist in tandem - both his wings and his vessel would literally knock into the pristine walls.

His pace is fast, thanks to his vessel's long legs, and the glass panes quickly slide into view. Dumah tunes into his approach almost immediately, and a younger angel jumps to his legs to open the glass doors for him. Whether it's out of fear or respect, Sam can't tell, and he's not in the mood to comb through their grace and read them.

“Hey, guys.” He says as he steps in, closing the door behind him despite how the action would come across to the others. When they shift in anxiety, he lifts his hands. “Just thought we'd have some privacy, no need to expect a slaughter.”

When he sits down at the table, Dumah leans forward. “We need answers, Lucifer. You didn't tell us about your soul or the issues it might cause you.” Her tone isn't accusing, but rather concerned. He looks at her appraisingly. She's brave to continuously point out things he hasn't spoken about.

None of the other seven angels seem surprised at her words, so they knew this before. He notices Zuriel is among them and smiles to himself. Nadiel must have fussed over him, since there's foot-long healthy feathers sprouting all over his previously naked wings. They're pretty; sand-colored secondaries fading into lighter beige at the tips. Zuriel doesn't seem scared of him, rather he's looking at him with... positive stuff. Sam looks back to Dumah and sighs.

“You're right, I didn't tell you. Because I didn't know either.” He states. “Father gave me a soul just over two weeks ago, and I wasn't aware of everything it came with.”

Dumah blinks. Eremiel leans towards him, as if he's noticing something they didn't before. “Is it why you're acting differently?” He asks, hesitant and wary. “You weren't like this when you came to Heaven possessing the seraph Castiel.”

Right, Eremiel was there. He doesn't get the chance to put together an answer.

“It's true.” Nadiel speaks up, looking at him with wide eyes. “I felt it, and Zuriel did as well. You're much different than you were.”

And there goes what cover he still had. The others look at each other, whispering to each other over the link and staring at him as if doing so would reveal everything. Lucifer thinks if he was still human, he'd be sweating. Alright, that's it. 

“If you'd stop gossiping like high school girls, I can give you the summary.” He says, trying to keep the relaxed mask up, but he thinks his grace's shuddering is obvious. The others shut up.

“Lucifer's grace was merged with the soul of Sam Winchester.” He says, choosing to speak about his past selves in third person for now. The meeting room is silent, soaking in his words. “I'm both of them. I came back here because I want to help, I have no other motives. I'm not taking over and I won't kill any of you. That'd be counterproductive to restoring this old place.”

He sighs through his nose, trying to push down his growing anxiety and the urge to shrink away from all the stunned gazes. Escape would be a good idea right now. He stands up. “I don't know why Father did it and I don't care. If you want my help, here it is. I'm going to the infirmary, if you wish you can come after me.”

Then he whips around and walks away, feeling their eyes crawling like insects on his dark leather jacket. His hearing could catch the rushing conversation that starts after he disappears around the nearest corner, but he really doesn't want to know what they're talking about.

He could have stayed. He could have answered questions like a mature, responsible archangel.

But he'd rather admit to himself he's a coward afraid of judgement, even if it's from siblings that don't even reach to his knees.

This is easier, and the escapes he can afford on a road that will be hard in the future are quickly turning into a guilty pleasure. A defense mechanism he's ashamed of, but won't remove because there's no way he's dealing with more bullshit than he already is.

He briefly unfurls his wings when he arrives in the plain infirmary again, examining the mottled slate feathers, ragged from lack of preening. He's too stubborn to take care of what he never wanted from Dad and it shows - not that his lack of self-care will have consequences like it would on a living bird; his feathers won't grow brittle or infested. But it's neither comfortable nor presentable. He hides them away again and waits.

Dumah shows up with a smaller group of angels five minutes later. Her face makes it clear she's about to make a statement. “Brother.” She starts, avoiding choosing a name. “I speak for all my siblings. We're grateful for your help and will gladly accept as much as you are willing to give.” Lucifer looks at her determined, well-meaning grace, dulled from years of stress. Dumah cares deeply for her siblings and the pain she's witnessed has worn her down. He finds he wants to fix that.

“We won't demand you speak about personal matters if you don't wish to. Know that your human side doesn't diminish our respect of your rank.”

He can't help but look widely at her, at a loss for words and needing a moment to find his footing again. “Thank you.” Sam says quietly, lowering his head just a tiny bit in her direction as a substitute for the body language of their wings.

Dumah smiles and repeats the respectful gesture, the angels with her mimicking her as well. “Of course.” Then she looks up with questioning eyes. “What do you wish to be called?”

Oh, that came up again. What he says now would shape their opinions further, the ones they started making barely minutes ago. Except now... he doesn't want to say Lucifer, but saying Sam would feel wrong. His human side has nothing to do with the Host - and Lucifer was their supposed enemy.

So what should he say? Both of the names are his, and neither fit him perfectly anymore. Not only with this situation, but with the image he wants to create for himself as well.

Hell, he does not want to have a identity crisis in front of six angels in the infirmary. Except now they're looking at him expectantly, Nadiel seems concerned about him like the moment he woke up and she was keeping watch above him beside the bed, and Dumah is just standing there awkwardly probably feeling sorry she asked at all.

“Uh...” He starts, hoping something smart will come out by itself. Dumah decides to save him. “You can think about it, brother. Whenever you make a decision, tell us and we will do our best to accept it.” He nods gratefully at her and points to the bed. “Thanks. So, do we start?”

Indra, the angel he thought must have given up on the Host by now, steps forward wordlessly and Sam shows him to sit down on the bed and unfurl his wings.

Nadiel joins him with another angel while Dumah shows the others out to give them peace. “I am Aralim, sir.” She bows slightly at the waist and her shoulder-length blonde hair falls forward. “One of the Rit Zien. I will help Nadiel.”

That's probably smart. He remembers how tired Nadiel was after helping with Zuriel.

He sits by Indra and starts working.

*

He doesn't tire out so much when he's finally stabilized Indra's grace thanks to his recent recharge of sleep. Him and Nadiel, who had forged an odd, friendly bond during their work, help him sit down on another bed while Aralim waits, catching her breath. She offered to call for another sibling, but this time Lucifer wants to do it himself. 

A lesser angel wouldn't be able to speak this way to him without the use of their unique angelic connection, and even he can't do it across dimensions, but it's not so difficult to stretch his grace out and into the energy flowing through Heaven like veins through a body, searching out a familiar light and calling out to her in his new True Voice, secretly reveling in the use of proper enochian it allows him.

_'Dumah, come here.'_

Her grace spins, startled and confused. _'Of course. I'll be right there.'_

Dumah seems quite intriguing to him, and healing someone's grace from the inside gives him insight into their mind he wouldn't have otherwise. He's not the best at reading people, but he's so far above them their minds are always somewhat bared to him. Dumah may be opportunistic, but he can see the good potential she has with her experiences.

She comes through the door, grateful and surprised her turn would come so soon, and he realizes that as the current leader, she was fully intent on letting all the others go first. She had grown on him with her strong will that would have annoyed him in the past, and this only facilitates his choice.

She takes off her light gray jacket and sits down, tense as wood. The bones of her wings creak and shudder as they unfurl, the remains of her pale lilac and dove gray feathers hanging uselessly down.

He leans closer, and Dumah forces herself to stay still and avoid the pain moving would cause her even when his icy breath ghosts down her neck.

Sam wastes no time stretching out his soul enhanced grace, but he takes it slower this time, letting her get used to it. “Dumah,” he starts talking. “I'd like to know the exact state of Heaven, as well as your current standing with Hell.”

Dumah keeps still as she answers. “There's... a little over four hundred of us left, the lowest orders included. We resorted to the Cherubim's power in the mass smiting performed on Amara.” She gasps out as he begins repairing her dimmed light to the way it was supposed to be. “A list... of names could be made, and their ranks. There's not many seraphim left, barely a dozen... We have thirty healers, but most of Heaven's soldiers are dead.”

Dumah breathes out. “We began assigning secretaries and intelligence angels to fighting when we ran out.”

Lucifer sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Untrained in battle. There's been many deaths thanks to their inexperience.”

 _Only four hundred left?_ Dear Dad, the death count was insane.

Dumah nods. “There has. We can all overpower demons, but we can't replenish our numbers while Hell constantly produces new demons. Our blades have been scattered over Earth, and demons got their hands on them. They've become a danger to us in the last years.”

The notion of a demon posing a threat to an angel would have been ridiculous only years ago. Back then, tens of thousands of angels were flying around Heaven, many of them unaware of what Earth was like, what possession felt like. The ones that knew were removed from it, only observing humanity without ever being part of it. Too powerful to worry about twisted human souls getting out of the place called Perdition.

Heaven was, for lack of better word, untouchable.

He sighs and falls silent, focusing only on the flow of his light over Dumah's.

  
When Dumah can't take anymore, he helps her off the infirmary bed to sit somewhere else. Her eyes are confused, straining to focus. “There should be an order to the healings,” She suggests. “It could go by rank or power. The commanders-” He sits her down.

“I'm healing Nadiel.” He states, brooking no argument. The healer has been helping him to the best of her abilities, but her grace is just as weakened as the rest of the angels.

Nadiel looks up at him and smiles. He nods in her direction and walks back. 

Dumah is correct, there should be a system to who he heals first, but he's the one doing it - he's the one who will decide who goes next. Lucifer is not a tool Heaven can use to fix itself and let him go when they don't need him anymore. It irks him already that he existed before the Celestial plane was even a thing, and they had the audacity to kick him out.

He doesn't want to be used, and even though he likes seeing his siblings radiating their joy he can't stop thinking it. He suddenly realizes the root of his feelings on the matter isn't pride or entitlement, but rather insecurity. Because he's been fussing over what they think of him and fretting about them potentially abandoning him the moment his supreme usefulness runs out.

He almost handles Nadiel roughly enough to break something before he sighs and lets go of the anger, trying to store it away focus on the healer's gentle nature.

Nadiel doesn't even flinch at it, calmly leaning back even though she is mindful of the darker directions his thoughts randomly swerve into. Her lack of fear equates with comfort, and he lets himself bask in it for a moment. It feels like a trusting partnership, and he can tell Nadiel has no intention of betraying his privacy.

He's gentler with her than the others, just like he handled Dumah, and Aralim watches intently to learn - she's a younger healer than Nadiel and doesn't have as much experience.

Another hour passes before he's satisfied and Nadiel's grace looks better again. He calls Indra, who had been watching intently for a while now, and gets Nadiel to a different bed. She leans on him and looks up into his grey eyes. “You know...” She says quietly. “You could choose a new name. One that fits you now.”

He looks at her in surprise. Nadiel seems well meaning, and he can't tell when she picked up on his uncertainty as well. 

“Maybe.” He answers. “I don't know yet.” Then he turns around and wonders why he admitted that. 

*

“This is it.” He announces. “I'll return in a while, but I'm pretty sure three is my limit.”

He finished the two... sessions every angel needed to start recovering on their own on Indra, Dumah and Nadiel. Aralim stopped to think for a moment before casting out with her mind over the Host and calling for the closest healer available.

Dumah thanked him for his help, smiling widely; Indra inclined his head and Nadiel just kept grinning, which could have creeped him out but made her look rather adorable.

Sam smiles back to her before he can stop himself and nods a goodbye. After a split second decision he unfurls his speckled wings right there and drops back into the astral plane, disappearing from their view and dipping into a rabbit's stoop towards Earth.

He doesn't feel sleep-tired, but he exhausted his grace to the point of needing a rest without any excessive smiting or warping reality. His flight is more akin to a straight line towards the bunker, the edges of the physical plane he can still see blurring into splotches of colorful energy around him. He tilts to the side above Kansas and circles down to Lebanon, landing gracefully in the bunker's war room.

It's late evening, and Dean is already asleep in his room.

Castiel is in his own bedroom, and Lucifer can hear faint conversation and background music. The small television they installed in the seraph's room - probably Netflix.

Interest piqued, he wonders after the sounds, knocks on Castiel's door and waits about a second before slipping in. Sam would have waited for a 'come in' or something similar, but his rank is higher than Castiel's and keeping him waiting outside is disrespectful. Or at least it was in the old days... he pulls himself fully into the present again.

Castiel is sitting on the bed with his trench coat off and wings out, the not yet fully grown feathers giving them a stubby look as they sit folded over his back like an inky black cape.

He looks at him in surprise before quietly greeting him. The TV series keeps droning on in the background while Lucifer looks curiously around before focusing on Castiel again. “Hey.” He says. “I just got back and I have nothing to do, so I thought I'd drop by.”

Castiel's eyebrows are lowered over his eyes in his usual expression that could be either curiosity, confusion, concern or disapproval. Despite being in the vessel of Jimmy Novak for years, he still hasn't gotten the hang of expressions - or Jimmy's voice. Lucifer knows what James sounded like and the relaxed way he used his vocal cords a while back seemed correct. He briefly wonders how much of Castiel's grace is wasted on his abused throat every day.

“Well, you could join me.” Castiel hesitantly invites, his new feathers rustling. “I have just found a new 'series' to watch.”

Sam resists snorting at his words and makes one long step towards the bed to flop down beside his younger brother, making sure they're not touching.

Then they stare at the humans stumbling over the television screen and acting out lines. Given his sense of sight, it's hard to look past the individual pixels and lines to see the faces, which seem awfully blurry and simple compared to what he sees in real life. It's incredibly annoying. How does Castiel do it?

“Dean informed me you told him about your old name.” Castiel interrupts just as he catches the fifth continuity error.

He looks at the seraph. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”

“He mentioned it made you uncomfortable.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. “So do you two regularly gossip about me behind my back? Did he give you a recap of the entire conversation?”

Castiel slowly shakes his head, but doesn't deny the first question out loud. “Dean only wanted to ask more about it. He was curious, but you didn't want to discuss it more.”

“Maybe I don't want him to know more about it. _Maybe_ , I'm not comfortable with you telling Dean personal stuff about me while I'm not there.”

Castiel has the audacity to frown at him. “It would be better for you both to talk regardless of that. Dean needs to know, and when you avoid a subject it makes him suspicious. If you just tried and spoke about what makes you-”

“I _am_ trying, for Dad's sake!” He suddenly yells, making Castiel flinch and pull away from him. He forces himself to speak quieter even though his grace is starting to boil with anger this situation most likely doesn't deserve, but Lucifer is always pissed off anyway. “I am. I'm trying my hardest here, Cas.” He rasps. “But this is heavy stuff. From way before you were created, so you have no way to know anyway.”

Castiel tilts his head. “What if you told it to both of us then? Dean isn't the only one who doesn't know who you are deep down, or who you used to be.” Lucifer doesn't answer. He knows it's true. “I was just a soldier for a very long time. I never had contact with the upper levels, especially not the highest ranks. You and Michael almost never showed to us.”

The archangel huffs a bitter sounding laugh. “It wasn't always like that. We were always among you in the old days. The change was so gradual it's hard to tell when seeing us became limited to the highest levels. It definitely wasn't an honour back then.”

Castiel gives him a small smile, and he can't help but think the seraph is trying to encourage him. He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. “My Fall only happened thousands of years ago for you, and yet everyone acts as if it was billions.” He breathes out a long breath. The tv keeps spewing out noises, forgotten. “So many of you barely knew me and... Heylel had been gone so long... it's like I'm a stranger back home, dubbed the adversary. And it's taken as fact.”

Their perception of him is based on rumours, stories and what Father said about him. It doesn't matter what he said to the Winchesters; that he wasn't a villain. It's too late to fix what's been done. Besides... “I'm pretty sure I deserve it. I might have been good once, but I did a lot of messed up shit, before and after the Fall.” He screws his grey, cold eyes shut. “I fit every single name they gave me. There's a good reason for all of them, so I don't even know why I still go around blaming Dad for painting me as a monster when it's exactly what I am. Everything they say is true.”

He doesn't even realize he's crying until he tries to open his eyes again and finding the world a blurred mess. A tear tickles his right nostril and slips down to the curve of his mouth, luckily on the side Castiel can't see. This, this is another thing his situation brought along, and it's one he loathes - his tendency to swing between extreme moods, calm to pissed off and unable to stop himself from crying afterwards.

Castiel's bright recovered grace stretches towards him to offer closeness and comfort. He doesn't feel like he deserves that kindness, regardless of how touch starved his own Light is and how alone he's been for millennia. He roughly pushes it away, getting a surprised gasp from Castiel, then jumps off the bed and leaves.

The seraph stands up as well, hurrying after him. “Brother, wait.” He calls, lifting his arm to grasp Lucifer by the shoulder.

He spins around and slaps it away like a bothersome mosquito. “Would you leave me alone?!” He growls out. “I don't need your fucking sympathy.”

Then he unfurls his wings, the warped things he can't help but resent, and takes flight. Castiel can't follow him yet... Small mercies.

He beats with heavy, sloppy strokes, the states of America rushing past until he lands on top of a skyscraper in Salt Lake City a few long milliseconds later, stumbling to the safety railing and letting out a deep breath. 

It's dark, and the city lights look like cheap, colorful neon stars, so many he can hardly tell them apart. The pollution covers up the real sky above him, so he's stuck staring at what the humans built where there was once nature.

His wings flap and flutter to keep his balance before they settle, half spread for the ethereal wind to ruffle them.

He slowly calms his breathing. Why did he say all that? Admit to his _insecurities_? It shouldn't matter - Castiel knows him as well as Father probably does, since he bared his grace and soul to him so completely. He must have known how LuciferSam perceived himself now.

And yet saying all this out loud is so much worse. 

It's hard and bitter because it's the truth, raw and unchangeable. They think of him as evil because he is. He's known to be cruel and deceitful because he is. 

There's no lies Father spread about him. It was just facts, chosen to be out in the open instead of kept behind closed doors in the highest spheres of Heaven. He waged war, he was arrogant, cruel and cold. He still is - maybe not arrogant, but he repeatedly bites the hands that try to feed him. 

He neither knows nor understands himself.

He slumps and leans against the railing, staring into the city and looking over people hurrying over streets from parties or whatever it is humans do at this ungodly hour. Dean and him never lived like this, and they certainly never lived in such a busy city, full of nightlife.

He suddenly springs to his legs. An old, curious presence lingers at the edges of his consciousness, stalking around his thoughts and observing; pitch black and devoid of color. It's horrifically familiar, making his grace recoil in terror and shiver inside of his vessel. His blade drops into his hand.

“Hello, nephew.” Amara greets, standing nearby on the platform and curiously sizing him up, her dark eyes piercing through his defenses and investigating his soul-grace. “It seems like every time I see you, you change.”

Lucifer narrows his eyes, but his vessel's heart is hammering inside his chest like a spooked rabbit. “Aunt Amara.”

She's no longer wearing the long black dress. Instead, she seems to have delved into humanity's diverse fashion and put on a lovely blue sundress reaching to her knees and covered her shoulders with a beige bolero jacket. Her brown curls cascade down her back as she tilts her head at him, stepping closer. 

Did her Brother and she have a fight and she wanted to take revenge by torturing him again? He backs away, trying to spread his wings and finds that he can't. He can't run.

Amara is right in front of him, still observing his every reaction. If he leans further away from her, he'll fall over the railing to the streets down below. He's taller than her while they're in vessels, but the immeasurable power emanating from her makes him feel smaller. There's an abyss behind her eyes, an absence of Light so intense it feels like it's pulling on him, devouring light and always starving for more.

The Darkness lifts up a hand and gently trails down the side of his face before cupping his cheek and ghosting her thumb under his left eye. He can barely keep still, flinching away and cringing under her touch.

“Interesting,” She mutters, her eyes that seem impossibly black to the archangel still looking into his head. He wants her out - he can do nothing about it. “So this is why Brother left me waiting.” He swallows and feels the movement of his throat against her arm.

Amara lets go of his face and brushes a lock of his hair away from it before stepping back. He breathes again.

“I suppose I can't begrudge him for it,” She muses. “You're quite the work of art.”

“I'm glad you think so, 'cause I sure don't.” He snarks. She just smiles sadly at him. “I know, Heylel. Lucifer. Samuel... I never said I agreed with this, but I give credit where it's due.”

She focuses on the wings still half folded on his back, staring at the dark feathers. He takes a step away. “Don't touch me.”

A sound similar to laughter leaves her throat. “Oh, nephew. I'm only fascinated... after all, I was there when my Brother shaped your wings.” She looks into the distance with a pained, almost nostalgic expression. “He was so excited when he sculpted them, shining like primordial light. He is different too, now.”

Lucifer looks sideways at her. “I'd say he's a whole lot more patronizing.”

She scoffs. “He always has been, his ego just flourished beyond belief without me there to keep him in check.”

Amara comfortably stands at the railing, looking at the view. He cautiously approaches her and stands close by. This is quickly turning into a civil conversation, which he didn't expect when she showed up in all her void-like glory.

“How's it going with you two?” 

Amara sighs and lifts her head, enjoying the night wind. “Quite well. I'm not intimidated by his petulant attitude. We're working through our issues, but he forced me to live alone, cut off in a locked universe. And if there is weakness I have, it's that I cannot create life without my Brother's help. Whatever I make withers away. I was isolated.” She turns to him. “And apparently, so were you.”

Lucifer winces. “So you've been going over everything? What you've both been doing all this time.”

Amara nods. “We have. Many apologies were given, and we still find things we need forgiveness from each other for.”

He looks skeptically at her. Father, owning up to his mistakes? In his entire life, he only got one apology from him and it was fake.

Amara sighs. “I don't think it was entirely fake, Lucifer.” Of course she heard that. He has no bloody privacy. “My brother's arrogance holds his honesty back, but I know he loved you. That he still does... and that's part of the reason I'm here.”

He perks up and looks intently at her, all his focus on her while he tries to cover the feelings her words inspire. Amara looks him in the eyes, pitch meeting dull grey. “I'm sorry for the part I played in your downfall. It was my darkness that corrupted you.”

He stares mutely at her until she turns away with a regretful expression. “I let it bleed over the lock in revenge, hoping it would cause trouble to the bearer. I thought it might be my brother, but it turned out I was poisoning one of his children.” She glances at him with a sad smile. “You were bright, once. I hope you can be again, with this.”

He doesn't get a chance to put together an answer, because with a mere blink of his eyes she's gone, her presence leaving as fast as it appeared.

His wings are free again and he stretches them out to their full span for a moment, straining until they tremble. 

This is a lot to think about, and while Amara's apology doesn't mean as much to him as Father's did when it was first said, her words still give him pause. Is there a possibility Father fused them because of love? Because he thought it might help him?

He crushes that thought. No matter the motive, this was wrong. There's even a chance Amara wasn't telling him the truth. 

_I don't care about Father_ , he says to himself. He doesn't give a damn, the only thing he strives for is revenge. He doesn't need the stupid hope and desperate love those words make him feel. 'That Father still loves him.' A load of bullshit.

He doesn't need Father's approval, he doesn't need his love, he doesn't want anything from him but a good punch to his face.

“Dad?” He asks the night air. His melodic voice cuts through the faint noise of traffic. He doesn't ask again, and he's pretty sure Dad wouldn't just appear.

He stands there for another half hour. Father doesn't make an appearance. Because why would he show when Lucifer actually wants him to? It never happened when he was in the Cage and not even when he prayed during the first apocalypse. He's gone again.

He wipes his tears and flies away.


	12. To Your Despair And Misery

Sam isn't in the bunker when Dean wakes up. He had been in Heaven most of the previous day and there's a chance he never even stopped by, spending the night up there as well.

Dean finds it harder to care about that this morning, ignoring the twist in his gut of Sam drifting further away. He wonders how far this will go.

He has no motivation or appetite to make himself a proper breakfast, and the food he'd stuff down would be bland anyway. Instead, he starts making himself a coffee while he waits for _something_ to happen. It's like he's not even making stuff happen these days, Lucifer will cause something sooner or later, probably something stressful or poorly thought out. 

He groans to himself. How the hell did they get to this point? What kind of life is he living? 

Dean slaps himself. He needs someone to talk to, get a distraction or something. As if on cue, Castiel walks in just as he always does, wearing all the numerous layers of clothing he really doesn't need that make people's eyebrows shoot up sometimes, especially during hot summer.

“Good morning, Dean.” He says in his comforting, gravelly voice. Dean smiles weakly at him. “Morning.” He checks his coffee - it's still too hot. “So he's still in Heaven, huh?”

They've all been avoiding using any name at all for the archangel. Dean feels like he's lying to himself when he calls him Sam, and it makes him sick to call him Lucifer. Maybe because on most days, it fits more.

Castiel shakes his head. “I don't think so. He came back briefly late last night, but...” He falters. “He flew off soon after.”

“Oh. Any updates?”

Castiel looks up. “The Host is elated.”

“Hah. Wow.” Dean sniffs sarcastically and takes a sip of his bitter coffee. Castiel glances at him. “You're in a bad mood.”

Dean huffs a disbelieving, bitter laugh. “Oh, yeah, 'cause there's no reason for it. Everything is dandy and normal and my little brother isn't literally Satan.”

Castiel's eyebrows lower, but Dean really doesn't want to listen to assurances and encouragement. He hasn't seen Lucifer for almost a day, and his thoughts are going into darker directions after every hour he spends alone with them.

He needs to get out of his head. “I'm driving to town today,” Dean tells Castiel after a minute. “Drop by a bar, maybe flirt a bit. I need a distraction.”

Castiel bites his lips, on the verge of saying something - and judging by his hesitant expression Dean isn't going to like it too much. “Dean, I've been thinking,” He starts, “About how... Lucifer usually responds in conversation. I think perhaps we're also at fault for it.”

Dean frowns. Lucifer has a short temper that makes it extremely hard to keep a level convo unless the archangel just had a breakdown and is still feeling melancholic. One wrong word and he blows up before storming away with no tolerance at all for subjects he doesn't want to breach. “What, you think we're too harsh?” Dean prods a bit roughly. He frowns at Castiel. “Is this about what happened in the kitchen when you decided to cuddle with him after he almost shoved a blade down your neck?”

Castiel sighs and shrugs. “Maybe it plays a part. But Dean, we've haven't been... all that fair to him, I suppose.”

“Fair.” Dean deadpans. 

“ _Yes_. Dean, we both want him to act like Sam, and we have the worst reactions every time he steps away from that, even if it's just the way he scrunches up his face.” At Dean's grimace, Castiel only shrugs. “You flinch every time he does it. But what I'm trying to say is that being what you want him to be is virtually impossible. He's actually trying his best and we're just putting more pressure on him. And when he's stressed, he lashes out more and hurts everyone around him.”

Dean sighs through his nose. He knows they're focusing on every little difference between LuciferSam and who he used to be more than they are on who he is now - but they can't be blamed for that. Sam was the most important person in Dean's life, and he won't stop pushing him towards that part of him, coaxing it out or dragging.

“Cas, he lashes out even if we're trying to be nice,” Dean says, “He makes everything even harder on default. What the hell do you want me to do? Because I won't hug the person who screwed with our lives the most. Especially Sam's.” He crosses his arms and looks accusingly at his angelic friend. 

“And you know, what you're doing bothers me. He almost killed you because you pointed out something, and you hugged him anyway.” He steps forward and jabs a finger to Castiel's chest, his tone snapping. “You are way too okay with all that's been happening, and with this whole 'getting your wings back' thing and him fixing up your family I think you're pretty fine with it. You get a lot out of it, don't you?” 

Castiel steps back and his perpetually neutral mouth opens slightly, gaping like Dean slapped him. “That's not why- Dean, that is _not_ why I'm saying this!”

But Dean is letting go of some of his own pent-up anger and grief, and he isn't stopping despite knowing deep down he'll regret this later. Cas and him are supposed to stick together, they need to or they won't make it through this.

“Hell, you have more in common with Lucifer than I do,” he snaps, “You finally have someone who screwed up as much as you have.”

Castiel looks as shattered as his small range of expressions allows him to be, and Dean feels a pang of guilt over it. The angel searches for words, but whatever he said must have hit deep. “Dean, I'm only trying to help.” Castiel says, so quietly his voice sounds normal for once. “I thought I could finally do something right instead of screwing up.”

Dean shakes his head and looks away. “I don't agree with your way of doing it _right_ , then. I'm not gonna be nice to him. I tolerate him because Sammy is in there somewhere. But I'm sure as hell not rolling over and accepting this thing.”

He leaves the cooling coffee on the table and walks out, backing out of the argument that might only get worse if he stays.

*

He only goes to a bar late in the afternoon. His mild drinking doesn't raise unnecessary questions that way, and he's more likely to get some success picking up someone. He pointedly doesn't wonder about what Sam's views on sex are now. He's probably turned into a prude along with an asshole.

Who sits down beside him isn't a lady, though. Dean groans into his glass. “What do you want, Crowley?”

The demon holds up a hand for the bartender and orders himself a fruity drink with a ridiculous amount of decorations on top. Dean practically has flashbacks to his demonhood, which must have been Crowley's intention.

“No need to be rude, Squirrel.” Crowley chastises him. “I just popped in to inquire about Lucifer. After all,” his eyes narrow and his lips pull up into a smirk. “He's flown by your bunker many, many times these past weeks.”

Dean's glass freezes on the way to his mouth. He turns his head to the demon king, who languidly swirls around his drink. “Don't be so surprised. You should have known I would never pass up an opportunity to plant some hex bags. I really should have checked them sooner... Now,” he puts his glass down and swivels around on his stool to look at Dean. “The question is why you wouldn't tell your demon bestie about what the devil is doing at your bunker, don't you think?”

Dammit. Of course. Crowley wouldn't miss a chance like that, especially to monitor a place that's been the center of action in the past years - at least the surroundings of the impressive structure. The demon had pinned bugs on them before, and Sam used to check the impala after Crowley dropped by. Even if they aren't inside the bunker (the wardings are too efficient) Crowley had to have found a way to know what goes on around it and checked when he realized Dean was lying to him.

He sighs. “Come on, we're not talking about this here.” Dean grumbles and stands up, leaving his drink there and walking out. As expected, Crowley follows him.

It's not that he can't have this conversation inside, but his brain's already fabricated possible ends to this chat that could end with either blood, unexplainable incidents or heavy subjects, and he's kind of leaning towards calling Lucifer here and letting him deal with Crowley instead.

He just leads the wary demon out while Crowley suspiciously checks for traps. He needs to call Lucifer, but the bastard probably doesn't have his phone on him. They haven't sent a single message to each other in the last three weeks. Then there's the option of praying.

Dean can only assume it would work - archangels hear prayers, but Lucifer could very well have everyone on permanent ignore. He's not sure he wants to do it, but what does he have to lose?

Crowley stops once they're behind the building, standing on the empty pavement and cast into shadow by the wall. “Well, Dean? Stop stalling and tell me what the hell has been going on.” The red-eyed demon is clearly getting angry and impatient.

' _Lucifer, this is Dean.'_

“A whole lot. God's involved. Look, I get that you wanna know about Lucifer. We, uh, heard what he did, so I'd want to get revenge too if I was you.” Dean smirks uneasily, stalling as much as he can. 

_'Crowley is here and asking about you. If you hear this and you wanna see him, now would be a good time to show up.'_

The king of hell steps closer to him and glares, his eyes flicking between his demonic red and human brown. “Just tell me already, you moron. What have you been doing with him?” He gets into Dean's face, looking up at the hunter. “And where's your moose of a brother? I haven't seen him in a while.” Crowley, regardless of how stupid he can act sometimes, isn't dumb. Dean searches for an answer.

“Hello, Crowley.” The temperature drops and something _heavy_ settles on them, like a very obvious presence that wants to be felt and acknowledged. LuciferSam hasn't done that with Dean before, and he has to admit it's effectively menacing. The hair on his arms stands at attention.

Crowley whips around after a short moment of shock, his eyes stabbing into the archangel leaning on the dirty white wall. “Lucifer. How lovely to see you.” The demon snarls. 

Lucifer gracefully unsticks himself from the facade and calmly walks towards them. Dean sidesteps away, warily watching what's going to happen. Lucifer is so ridiculously tall in the body that sort of looks like Sam but isn't, towering above the short demon and just watching him with an empty expression, giving the impression of a scientist examining a dead fly. 

Is he acting? Who is he really; the person Dean sees now, cold and cruel, or the sometimes-awkward salty guy that basically lives with him? Dean is afraid of knowing.

Crowley looks like he's torn between boiling in rage and pissing himself in fear. Whatever revenge he wanted to get, he doesn't have the equipment for it now. He's unprepared and weak. There's a hint of confusion - recognition? - as he looks into the upturned grey eyes. “Who's your vessel?” He asks, his raspy voice quiet and panicky. “Is that-” 

Lucifer's arm shoots forward, unexpected, rapid. It happens so fast Dean jerks in place and stares, comprehending the scene slower than it progresses.

The pale fingers don't stop on the front of Crowley's expensive black suit. They reach in, making their way between the demon's ribs and forcing them apart with a loud crunch, breaking and shattering; burrowing deeper until Lucifer is elbow deep in the demon's chest cavity and there's a hand poking out of Crowley's back, vivid red spurting around it and dripping off the fingers that slowly unclench. Crowley produces a gurgling, gasping whine and the devil slowly starts pulling his arm back out, gripping Crowley's shoulder with the other. 

Then he _does_ something, Dean doesn't know what exactly; and Crowley, the king of Hell and their sometimes-ally lights up from the inside. He lets out his final gurgle and slides off Lucifer's arm to the ground, his eyes a smoldering mess.

And that's it. No conversation, no threats. Lucifer calmly shakes off the bloodied hand so that the thick red liquid splatters the ground around _Crowley's corpse._

Dean is frozen. He's known that demon for so long. He's just always been there, maintaining his usefulness and annoying attitude, causing trouble and helping, strangely fond of the two hunters. Eventually, Dean stopped planning his inevitable death and simply coexisted. For that to end just like that is shocking.

He can't stop staring at the pool of blood slowly spreading underneath the dead demon. “Lucifer...” He starts. “What did you just...” He trails off and the addressed archangel turns to him with a questioning expression. “Aha?” He sees Dean rooted there and his brow furrows. He steps towards Dean, and God help him but Dean backs away just two steps.

Lucifer freezes. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, still dripping with demon blood; his fist clenches and Dean can hear the cooling blood squelch. “Dean... you know I wouldn't do that to you.” He says quietly. “I'd never, you _know_ that.”

Dean takes a deep breath and momentarily pushes the brutality aside for later. “Lucifer, that was Crowley.”

Lucifer nods, hair swaying slightly. Sam's hair Dean always complained about but secretly thought it suited him. He stupidly wonders, just for a split second, if the devil likes having long hair for some reason. “Uh, yeah. That seemed pretty obvious to me.” The archangel states slowly, like Dean just called him dumb.

Dean's jaw clenches. “He was our ally and the frickin king of Hell. And now he's dead.”

Lucifer blinks, frowning. “Well, duh. And he wasn't _my_ ally, he was your summer romance. He would have caused trouble sooner or later, so I'd say this was an efficient way of avoiding it.”

Dean stares at him. Lucifer genuinely doesn't get why Dean is disturbed, the empathetic Sam part momentarily swallowed up by the primordial archangel. 

“We need to get away from here.” He eventually rasps. “Someone's gonna come and there's a corpse on the ground.” Then he turns around and bails, quickly distancing himself from Lucifer and Sam, who keeps standing there watching him go, covered in drying blood.

Christ, how much Dean wants to pry them apart, especially right now. This is the second time he's witnessed this new person killing someone, and this wasn't as instant and bloodless as the vampire smiting.

Sam wouldn't dig through somebody's chest. He's seen Lucifer do it - actually he witnessed a massacre six years ago, and he remembers him killing the pagan god Baldur the exact same way before going to bash Kali's skull in - and he doesn't want to think of Sam using the same method. It's horrifying.

Lucifer doesn't show even when Dean gets to the impala, and he's glad for it. His heart is still beating too fast.

He starts it and goes home.

* * *

He botched up something again, and he has a sure idea what for a change.

It must have been the way he went about it. There's no way Dean could resent him for killing the smarmy demon - he's evil and he always has a selfish motive when he helps them with anything. 

Dean might have had a soft spot for him, but Lucifer hated the British asshole. Dean had been a demon because of him, something he abhors more than humans. He smiled at him from outside the Cage, feeling oh-so-superior because Lucifer had been 'harmless'.

It's best not to tell this to Dean, but it was _nice_ to feel Crowley's oily, dark essence snap and crumble, fall apart into chunks around his fingers. He could have just reached with his grace and squashed him like a ripe berry without ever touching him, but he wanted to revel in it more than he wanted Dean to have a good opinion of him, at least in that moment. The violence, the flowing blood fed something bottomless inside his gut that the Mark dug into him, and he took as much as he could from the few seconds of Crowley's pained gurgling as he could before he flamed out.

Nope, that isn't something he'll discuss with Dean.

He wants to tell the others about Amara, but that would lead to questions he can't answer honestly. Like what he would do if her words turned out to be true. He decides he'll tell his brothers when this pathetic hope bleeds away and he can just be angry at Dad again instead of waiting for the crumbs he might be given.

He's already spent way too long thinking, and his grace is recovered, so he takes flight again, making sure Crowley's body left no trace and the blood is gone from his vessel.

Before he could breach the veil between the earthly dimension and the celestial one, Castiel's grace pings at the edge of his mind. It's a hesitant Request for an audience - something the angels all know how to do. It's extremely polite and non-intrusive, like a formal letter he can open at leisure instead of an unstoppable prayer echoing through his light.

It surprises him and he momentarily hovers in place before angling himself back down and to the bunker. This is the very first time this has happened to him in many millennia, and he's interested in why Castiel would do it. 

He lands in the bunker's war room where Castiel immediately stands up from his chair. Dean hadn't arrived back home yet.

Castiel seems almost nervous, his grace twisting in dark turquoise and caramel. This isn't bad news, then. “Hello, brother.” He says. Lucifer tilts his head curiously. “What's up?”

Castiel steps closer, his wings shifting. They remind him of a raven, the glistening black reflecting the blue of the bunker's warding glowing on the walls. They're not fully recovered, but with effort Cas could probably fly at least some short jumps.

“I wished to ask a favor of you.” Castiel states. “I would like to come with you to Heaven, since I made a decision about my future and need to speak with Dumah about it.”

Sam wonders if he missed something, feeling the backlash Castiel's sudden request brings. He didn't expect him to come with for at least a while - Castiel is on Heaven's black list, and he seemed content to permanently join the Winchesters on Earth. Sam frowns. “Are you sure? No offense, but you wouldn't get a warm welcome and you don't have the power to resist their blades.”

Castiel hastily nods, new hesitance streaking pale colors through his grace. “I know. It's why I'm asking you to vouch for me at least until I can say what I need to. Your protection would mean a lot to me.”

Lucifer blinks. He could easily ensure that, but his reputation has only started to repair back home, and offering protection to Heaven's most wanted would cast him in a bad light even if he told everyone about Castiel's role in the fight against Amara. 

He mentally slaps himself for thinking like that - his friend is more important than his public image. He smiles. “Okay, sure. I was just going there, so I can give you a lift.”

Castiel's grace glows in slightly more saturated colors. “Thank you.”

Sam just hums in response and unfurls his many wings, raising them up in preparation for quick passenger travel. Castiel comes closer so his grace winds easier around the archangel's, and Sam extends the middle pair around the seraph and folds it over the black wings. Then he flaps.

The world blurs and Castiel's vessel glows with his True Light - rather pretty, a mix of midnight blue, sapphire and warm brown - as it's pulled along for the ride. Sam keeps hold of him while he quickly slices through the barriers to Heaven and launches them through. The entire thing takes a few milliseconds, but to their minds it's perfectly comprehensible.

They land in one of Heaven's corridors and Castiel quickly straightens up to look around the whiteness, eyes tracing fondly over the boring, plain surfaces.

He keeps his black wings formed on his vessel, and Sam knows they'll immediately assume he healed them. But Castiel clearly doesn't want to hide anything regardless of how it may seem, shoulders squared and Light glinting with nervousness and courage.

Castiel has made peace with the fact that he will be judged, and he'll take the brunt of it without covering up anything. Very much unlike Lucifer, who postpones and hides as much as he can - the archangel first came to Heaven hiding what was different, then gave a short, rather cryptic answer about it. Seeing the seraph do this makes his own actions seem rather weak, and Lucifer suddenly stops folding his wings away.

He admires Castiel's decision - so why not be like him? After a long moment he chooses to do the same, neatly folding his three pairs of wings. The lower, smaller pair snugly fits under the one above it like it would on his true form, and the primaries flow to the floor together. He feels a pang of self-consciousness for their ragged, neglected state and regrets leaving them like that for a second before shaking his head and pushing those thoughts away.

Castiel's lips twitch up in a smile.

Lucifer expected the angels to be scattered across Heaven like they were before when he came up, all doing the duties needed to keep Heaven running, but there seemed to be a gathering of a few dozen of them in a larger room west of Castiel and him - or what would be west if Heaven had a northern pole. “Cas, do you wanna speak in front of so many siblings? 'Cause I can ask Dumah to meet us somewhere else.”

Castiel thinks before steeling himself. “No. I will speak there.” Lucifer gives him a questioning look, but the seraph already starts marching on. He hopes Castiel knows what he's doing, because frankly Lucifer is confused and would like some answers as to what Castiel plans to say.

He walks beside the seraph all the way there, keeping pace so that they're side by side. He doesn't know if Heaven is still as strict with their ranks as it was just before he fell, but he won't take any chances. This isn't his moment, so Castiel won't trail him; They won't ever be seen as equals simply because of the gaping wedge of the power difference, but this is a show of respect. Castiel won't be touched.

By the time they step into the room, the grace filled eyes of everyone in the room are fixed on them. Some of them are standing, and the mix of attitudes in the room makes the tension rise disproportionately; looks of hostility or revulsion are thrown at Castiel, and some of their siblings show baffled disapproval at Lucifer's self-appointed guard duty. He catches the word 'traitor' and puts all the menace he can muster into a glare that grants him immediate silence. 

Dumah swiftly strides towards them over the room, her recovering, pale lilac wings neatly folded over her formal beige clothing. “Hello, brother.” Dumah greets him first, taking note of his decision regarding his name again. “What is Castiel doing here?”

Lucifer gives her a crooked smile. “Why don't you ask him?”

Dumah shifts, her light spiking in nervousness that shrouds everyone who's ever dealt with Lucifer. She didn't actually deserve that, since she was only trying to be respectful while upholding the treatment the Host was giving Castiel, but he was peeved at it. Castiel steps forward. “Hello, Dumah. I only wish to speak, if you'd give me the word.”

Dumah's eyes glance up at Lucifer's and he gives her a faint nod. “Of course, Castiel. Say what you wish to.” Dumah allows and steps back.

Castiel steps around the main table, his wings pressing themselves against his back as he looks over the many faces staring at him. His grace is spinning rapidly with emotion; remorse is the main one, and Lucifer can already see what's about to happen.

“Siblings.” Castiel starts, addressing them even though he already has all the attention. “I wish to... apologize for the mistakes I have made. I am responsible for many deaths among the Host, some of them intentional and others caused by my ignorance or my numerous errors.” His gravelly voice cracks. “I can never replace the lives I have taken, but I wish to ask for a chance to redeem myself. I may never make up for what I've done, but I will work towards it for as long as I can.”

Lucifer leans on the wall of the room, looking at the seraph with mournful eyes. _Oh, Cas._ He knows vividly the guilt his friend and brother carries within himself, and he hopes he won't need to interfere for the others to allow this. Castiel wouldn't want his given chance to depend on the friends in high places he has.

Luckily the angels are listening and he has silence. “If I am allowed, I would train as a healer and strive towards fixing mistakes and helping siblings instead of fighting them. I would gladly pledge never to kill another brother or sister.”

Castiel silently exhales when he finishes, and walks away from the spot to wait for his siblings' answer.

The Host's shared mind is silent for barely a few seconds before chatter rises up. Lucifer isn't privy to it, but being this close to them and in Heaven he can tell they're talking. Many of the conversations are probably private and keeping Castiel out while others are mainstream, including the angels who aren't part of this meeting. As an archangel, he used to be able to hear everything - nothing was hidden from him. Now, he isn't in on anything and he feels... excluded.

Inias, one of the angels who doesn't harbour animosity towards Castiel stands up. “I think Castiel should be accepted back, brothers.” He says with conviction. “His goal is a noble one and we need as much help as we can get. And Castiel is one of the few remaining seraphim.”

The conversation slowly lapses after his exclamation, dying down until Dumah steps to Castiel again when they've come to a conclusion.

“Castiel, you may stay and learn until you join the ranks of our healers.” She announces. Castiel smiles in relief as Dumah continues. “We will need help restoring wings in the future, if Lucifer keeps helping us as he has until now.” Lucifer nods vaguely when she gives him a glance, still casually leaning on the wall while he keeps an eye on Cas. His arms are crossed over his chest, half because he didn't know what to do with them and because it makes him feel safer somehow - a human thing.

With Dumah's mention of him and her hidden inquiry about his help, the attention is dragged back to him - and as expected, uncomfortable looks linger on his wings. He can sense confusion and curiosity, but to his relief there are no particularly bad reactions to them, merely unanswered questions.

-

Castiel sticks to him when they walk to the infirmary, and Sam looks at him curiously. “When did you decide to become a doctor?”

“I've been playing with the idea for a while now.” Castiel answers. “I think I would like my future to be dedicated to healing, not war.”

Sam looks at him, thoughtful. Castiel is a soldier. Quick in a fight and good with his blade. Almost none of the seraphim had ever been under Raphael - most served under Michael and Lucifer. A seraph was formed and meant to fight, with clawed true forms of many quick limbs and razor sharp feathers. They weren't made to be healers. But maybe this would help Castiel find a new purpose and give him some much needed peace. A respite from the blood that kept piling up on his hands.

He lets his grace touch Castiel's with quiet approval. 

Nadiel walks closer to him, her still healing midnight blue wings loosely folded. “Brother,” she starts quietly. “About what I said before, I realise I may have been out of line-”

“Nadiel,” He interrupts her. She shouldn't be nervous about this. “Don't think about it as a mistake. You brought up something I should have dealt with before.”

Nadiel blinks. “You've made a decision?”

Hell no. This is something he needs to mull over more, talk about it with Cas and Dean, then mull it over some more. A new name, a real Renaming of his grace and therefore the destination of prayers is a huge thing. It was a big decision when he first changed it, and it would be just as big now.

“No.” He says awkwardly. “I need time to think about it and discuss it with, um, my... close family.” Castiel shifts next to him, but Sam doesn't meet his eyes. The seraph's curiosity is warm and prodding. With a start, Sam realizes he must have been wondering about what he was like in Heaven, how he treated and talked with his siblings now. He hopes he reached expectations if they were good.

Then he suddenly remembers something. “Right. Nadiel, I'm already putting a lot on you as my helper with the wings, so I don't want to ask this of you, but Castiel needs to learn from someone.” He tells her. “Can you suggest anyone who would be willing to have him as an apprentice?”

Nadiel hums in thought, taking a minute to think. “May I suggest Lailah? She is capable, patient and has experience in tutoring.”

He remembers that angel. Lailah was an older healer, one of Raphael's personal students who knew him from _before_. Lailah certainly remembers him even from when he still went by Heylel.

“She would do a good job.” He says slowly. “I need to know if she's good with Cas, and she'll be more effective if I heal her.”

“Of course. I will call her.” Nadiel falls quiet while Castiel looks at Lucifer. “I've never worked with her before.”

The archangel shrugs and strolls through the doors Nadiel darted forward to open. “She's nice. Stern, but she'll teach you well.”

  
Lailah shows up rather soon, possessing a dark skinned woman with hair braided close to her scalp in long lines of black. She bows her head towards Lucifer and his wings shift slightly in acknowledgement, the white primaries that otherwise reach to his ankles brushing the floor.

He quickly explains the situation to her and waits to see her reaction. She looks Castiel over like she's evaluating him and then gives a curt nod. “I will mentor him.” Lailah then looks at Lucifer so that their eyes meet. Her voice drops until it's soft. “It's good to see you back, brother. It's been a long time.”

Lucifer feels his face stretching into a smile. “You too. Now hop on the bed, we're fixing you.” He says lightly, grinning when she follows him and elegantly settles on the infirmary cot. Her burned osprey wings unfurl and Sam gestures for Castiel to stay close. “Watch carefully what Nadiel and Aralim will do later. They help a lot when we start reconstructing grace, so you'll be doing that. Lailah will teach you other stuff as well.”

Castiel's eyes are determined. “Understood.”

*

A routine settles and solidifies, both for now and the future. Sam can effectively work on three angels at once before he needs to stop and give his already out-of-shape grace a breather, and Aralim and Nadiel work in shifts they established between themselves.

Castiel watches, asks questions and eventually tries to help as well, even if his grace is clumsy, never having been used for this.

Sam remembers he needs to tell Cas about Crowley and Amara, but decides to wait until they finish. A _talk_ will inevitably follow, and he needs to keep his focus.

He stores it away until Lailah is ready to take Castiel for some schooling and the other two angels they worked on, Eremiel and Inias, are sitting getting fussed over by Aralim.

He gestures for Castiel to follow him and steps around a corner to speak privately. Castiel tilts his head at him. “What is it?”

“I, uh, should tell you now rather than later,” Sam says awkwardly, before just choosing to go for blunt. “We had a run in with Crowley and I smote him. He's dead now.” 

Castiel blinks, processing. “Crowley is dead.” Sam nods. “Yep. So we should keep an eye on Hell in case there's anarchy and demons start fighting over who should take over.”

Castiel gives him a long look and sighs. “Well, what's done is done. It wasn't a good move, Sam.”

Lucifer grits his teeth. “Dean also seems to think so.”

“We can talk about it later with him present. Lailah is waiting for me.” Castiel already turns to leave when he falters and looks back at him pensively. “The way you act with Nadiel and the others... it's easier for you than with Dean or me.”

Sam shifts in place. “Yeah, well.” He looks away. “You two keep judging everything I do. Here, I can just be... myself. I know they judge me, but at least they don't know who I was. They don't... compare us.”

Castiel's grace suddenly spins faster, flashing with something almost urgent and bitter, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Sam interrupts him. “Go, Lailah is waiting. I'll tell Dean about all this.”

He really did just admit that, didn't he. He probably condemned himself to Castiel grilling him about it, then telling Dean and then Dean bringing it up in painful, slow ways. But it's true. There's no calculating his words here, no careful consideration over what Dumah or Nadiel will think, what he would have done when he was someone else. No having to battle the constant feeling that he's pretending every time he thinks too hard about what he wants to say. He likes that, and he enjoys the more relaxed attitude he's slowly building with some of his siblings. 

He turns to walk away from the seraph, feeling like having realizations about himself in front of him makes them exposed somehow, when Dumah appears around the corner to stop him, a few angels following close behind her. “Brother, wait a moment. We would like to speak to you.”

Sam hesitantly folds the wings he was just going to unfurl and Castiel politely leaves to give them privacy and go to Lailah.

“What is it, sister?” He asks her, using a more formal language now that he sees who makes up the group of angels as Dumah stops next to him. Her grace is swirling in nervousness and determination, a mix he's seen a lot in this particular angel.

Nadiel's presence is expected, out of everyone present the least uncomfortable in his company; it's the other two that make his feathers twitch in something he would never admit is nervousness - let's just call it annoyance instead. 

They are both old, or at least compared to the ones he's interacted with until now. The high cherub by the name Ophaniel, who picked a lean, younger man with light, wild curling hair and blue eyes seems to have a positive opinion of him, standing in a relaxed stance next to his older brother.

Jehoel was chief of the seraphim before his fall, an imposing figure missing the wings similar to a crowned eagle. Lucifer remembers him as a respected, capable seraph with a military mind. His vessel is a well built, muscled man, easily someone of arabic descent given his facial features. His copper colored grace is dark with wariness.

“We wanted to discuss the threat of Hell with you.” Dumah explains. “As I said, the demons have become a bigger threat than ever, and many fight-capable ones have our celestial blades. We called most of the Host back here to avoid fighting and because Heaven is in danger of collapsing if our grace isn't present.”

“And you wanted to see if I could do anything about it, seeing as I'm the devil.”

Dumah nods carefully in confirmation. Lucifer sighs and looks over the small group. Why does everyone assume he's the big enchilada down in hell, or knows shit about politics? How does one burst out of confinement after forty millennia and find out he gained fifty more names, a job description and too many vile cults? He sighs to himself again. “Siblings, to be completely blunt here, while there are some demons who are loyal to me, I hold no real sway over Hell. Regardless of the whole devil title, I've never been more to most demons then a bedtime story. Most would only follow me out of fear.”

Dumah blinks in confusion. Jehoel steps closer, his dark eyes questioning. “What about the princes then? I thought they ruled in your absence and answered to you.”

Ugh, touchy subject. “Sort of,” Lucifer says slowly. “But Azazel died, Ramiel left and has been living quietly somewhere on the earthly plane, and I've no idea where the other two are. I didn't try to search for them and they didn't come on their own.”

Dumah stares in befuddlement into empty space for a second before jerking and snapping her eyes back to him. “Then... what should we do?”

Lucifer ignores the fact that she just asked him for directions and thinks out loud, trying to reach an idea and including them. It's an unprofessional way to operate, and a self-conscious part of him that wasn't there before reminds him that he's more immature and crude than every single one of his younger siblings here. 

“We could deal with it like we used to.” He says with a wry smile. “Since I just smote the last king, demons will flounder for a while before new leadership establishes. If there ever was a chance to take back the reins, now would be it.”

Jehoel tilts his head to the side warily. “What do you suggest? Taking the throne?”

Lucifer shakes his head. “I already decided I don't want that. No, I was thinking of curbing the demons back to what they used to be.” He starts, and his wings twitch restlessly when he begins explaining, slipping away from his usual pattern of speech and adopting the same tone he used to use in Heaven long ago.

“Putting together flights of soldiers who are best trained for fighting in vessels and healing them to full strength would give us an advantage. The blades Hell possesses need to be confiscated. And Hell's court is chaotic, they hardly ever manage a proper council, so we can make sure that whoever is on the throne next can be kept under the Host's figurative thumb.”

He looks to Jehoel, who is listening with rapt attention. “The Gates of Hell hadn't been under your control in years, and many demons escaped because of this. That needs to be corrected so the numbers Hell has topside fall.”

He suddenly catches himself and takes an awkward step back. “I'll return to Earth now. Expect me back after a while, maybe send a few more angels to the infirmary.” He looks at Ophaniel and Jehoel. “It would be practical if you were among them. Ophaniel, are you chief of the Cherubim?”

The cherub, likely a guard, nods curtly. “I have been ever since Kerubiel died on Earth.”

“Then you should both be there.” Lucifer states and takes two steps back to unfurl his wings. “See you later, sibs.”

He drops down through the dimensional barrier and quickly flies towards the bunker. He isn't sure why, but what just happened inspired a mix of feelings he's hopeless to understand. It was almost like... loss. Being what he used to be long ago for a short minute. 

But there's no use returning.

He sighs, his true Voice sending a ripple through the astral plane as he flies. Dean will yell at him so much. For Crowley, Castiel and probably Amara as well, for leaving him alone for hours and not even telling him where they were going.  
He mentally prepares himself for the verbal lashing and angles his wings for a landing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first version I wrote, Crowley played as an antagonist with a bigger role and managed to capture LuciferSam by trapping him in Nick, which led to some very odd moments between him and Dean. Here, I decided to cut that part out completely since Crowley's death is important for the story to progress.  
> Castiel's arc will evolve more later, but this is the first step on his journey. Eventually Dean will be pulled from his funk even if he will never fully come to terms with what happened. He just needs to hit absolute rock bottom while Sam is already climbing.


	13. Not To Indulge In Self-Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning!! Mentions of past abuse, Stockholm syndrome and sexual abuse. This will be a rough one, but it's been a long time coming.

Dean looks pissed even before he opens his mouth. The hunter's face twists, his eyebrows contorting in displeasure and disappointment and plain rage.

For a moment, the rude, snarky part of the archangel contemplates telling Dean how ugly frowning makes him, the wrinkles it causes on the pretty face he was designed with for the oldest archangel, but decides it's not worth getting snapped at. He doesn't have the energy to deal with that too.

“We should talk.” He says lamely. Dean breathes through his nose, violently. “You think?”

Sam's lips thin into a line and he looks somewhere to the side of Dean's face. “I can explain.” He sighs, knowing how bad that sounds, but saying it anyways. He actually doesn't have an excuse for Dean other than 'I didn't wanna talk about it yet and I forgot.' He didn't mean it as a bad thing, wasn't actively trying to be a dick to the hunter, but causing damage even when he doesn't mean to seems to be a theme.

Dean rubs his face. “Do you have. _Any_ idea. How insanely exhausting and inconsiderate you are?”

Okay, _ouch_. But maybe he does deserve that. Scratch that, he deserves more than verbal repercussions, but he knows there won't be any other than Dean refusing to speak to him or something.   
He channels the feeling of being offended to momentarily ignore the hurt mocking him. _What a bad person you are, even when you say you'll try your hardest. Screwing up everything._

Dean glares at him.

“I was in Heaven.” Sam says. “Cas is still there.” He wants to explain more but as expected, Dean's eyes are already widening. 

“Why the hell is Cas up there?!”

Sam wants to groan, because he was frickin getting to that and he'd actually like to go to sleep right now or something instead of another screaming match, but he stays strong and resists. No use getting caught up in stupid emotion all over again. He tries to keep his voice soft, but his tone makes it clear he's peeved. “He asked me to take him before you came back. He didn't tell me exactly why, so this was a surprise for me too, okay? He made a public apology to the angels and decided to train as a healer.”

Dean takes a moment to understand all the implications before frowning. “So he's up there being doctor.”

Sam nods. “Yes. He's an apprentice actually, but yeah.” The protective concern Dean feels for Castiel kicks up, his soul clenching. “Is he safe? Are they gonna try anything?”

“No, they accepted his heartwarming speech and took him back.”

Dean freezes at his wording. “When's he coming back here?”

Lucifer thinks for a moment. He hadn't thought about that at all. “Soon, probably. How much time he has to spend up there wasn't cleared up.”

Dean pulls a chair from the war room's table and sits down. “And you, in all the hours that passed since then, never got the bright idea that maybe I should know where you two went.”

Sam cringes, a lot, anxiety making itself known again. “Uhm, there's more actually.”

Dean slowly looks at him, keeping deathly silent. Sam crosses his arms, the noise the sleeves of his brown jacket make seeming overly loud. “About... two nights ago, Amara stopped by and had a convo with me.”

Dean stares at him and Lucifer can see his soul rippling and bubbling like boiling coffee. “God's sister, the Darkness, popped by to have a chat, _two days ago_ , and you didn't tell us.”

Sam hunches into himself. Yeah, he does deserve that. “I was gonna tell you.”

Dean slaps the table top and Sam flinches at the sharp bang it produces. “Dammit!” He yells, livid and upset and cracking. His green eyes fall shut, either in anger or because they're wet - maybe both. “Lucifer, this is not okay! I _just_ started trusting you to tell me stuff! But you're barely ever here and you only give us the bare minimum of what _you think_ we deserve to know, when you feel like it!” He's seething.

Sam crumples. “That's not... why I didn't tell you yet.”

“Oh, this better be good. Why didn't you, then?” Dean mocks, and his eyes are hiding tears so well Sam wouldn't be able to see them if he wasn't looking at his soul. The archangel silently sits down. “Amara said some things,” He tells Dean, “And they kind of... hit me. I needed to think it over first. Me and Cas lost track of time because we were healing siblings, and I talked to a group of them afterwards.”

Dean rubs his eyes. “What did Amara say?”

“Um... well she commented on this-” He gestures to himself, “-entire thing, and she apologized to me. Not for this, I mean... for the Mark.”

The hunter raises a sceptical eyebrow, quickly coming to the conclusion he isn't being told everything and just as rapidly losing his remaining patience. “Anything else?”

“She, um...” Lucifer squirms in his chair and refuses to meet his eyes. “...May have said that Dad did it because he loves me. That he just wanted to help.” He gets out, face burning and wings reaching forward to wrap around him. Dean can't see them, so he lets it happen.

His human brother looks at him with hopeless resignation. “Why do you still care? Why are you even going around this. Chuck is an asshole. He gave you the Mark, he put you in a cage and then he did _this_. I'm not all that sympathetic and you know it, but for Christ's sake. Do you have to be that desperate for him to love you?”

Lucifer bites the inside of his cheek. Dean doesn't know how much that hurts. If it wasn't true, it'd make him furious. Except he just wants to cry and hug someone and that alone says more than enough about how utterly pathetic he is. But it won't happen, so his wings are doing it for him.

“I...” He starts. What the hell is he supposed to say? Why does he want Father's approval this much? Why does he have to yearn for his love when he knows he probably won't get it? Father's rejection after the rebellion, his disappointment and sorrow haunted him in the cage. Ate at him and cultivated self-loathing the Mark had wiped away before. He wanted to be loved so badly, and he hated everyone. But he was alone - so he took it out on himself, maybe even hoping Father would come then, if he saw his once favourite son so damaged. Except it did nothing but add to his insanity. Father didn't care before, and he certainly didn't give a shit afterwards - when Lucifer lost the only thing that made him worth keeping around. When he was no longer beautiful.

“I don't know, man.” He answers quietly. “I'm probably just programmed that way.” Lucifer knows for a fact that he is, that his wiring doesn't allow him to hate his Father, to be indifferent, to not want his love. But that'd be a hard pill to swallow for Dean. “It's not like I don't constantly want to punch him for what he did. I'm mad at him.”

“But, what, he's your dad and you love him?” Dean finishes flatly.

Sam shrugs. “What do you want me to say?” He asks, tired and sick of it. Perhaps he's spent too much energy on healing again. He should take a nap or something.

Dean sighs and looks away. “To be honest, it's probably better for all of us that you don't hate him. Revenge wouldn't be pretty in this situation, huh.” He huffs a humourless laugh and looks up at the high ceiling. “Jesus, imagine what dad would say if he were here. I think about that sometimes.”

 _Oof_. Sam hadn't thought about John all that much, but sitting here with Dean and remembering is almost... uncomfortable. “I don't want to find out.” He says. “Grab the holy water, a gun, scream a bit? He wouldn't be happy, that's for sure.”

Dean hums, and his expression saddens a bit. Sam looks at him in contemplation. “He's happy right now, with mom. They have a heaven together.”

The hunter looks sharply at him. “Did you visit?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. Even if I did, I wouldn't talk to them. They're at peace, they definitely don't need to deal with this shitstorm, and I don't need to hear what John would say.”

Dean stares into space for a while longer, his brain probably making up the horrifying scenarios that could transpire if John Winchester knew about this. Luckily, he's too caught up to notice Lucifer referred to their human dad by name, even though he's never called Chuck anything but Dad or Father.

Then he sighs. “I'm going to sleep. I was up way too late waiting on you guys.”

Sam grimaces. His internal clock can keep the time of this plane as meticulously as he wants it to, but his sleep 'schedule' completely depends on the power he exerts and angels don't care about what time of day it is on Earth.

When Dean walks away, he decides to turn in too. He doesn't want his exhaustion to go as far as it did last time. 

He closes the bedroom door behind himself, but doesn't lock it.

  
*

Awareness comes slower this time, different from the way he jerked up last time. His grace stirs and slowly pulls out of the nonsensical state it was in, sluggish and comfortable. He's almost dreaming, something that hadn't happened last time, not that he remembers. He's not used to his memories ever being imperfect, but there's a lot of moments that stand out in his mind like black holes now.

It's odd, random bits of memories gluing and sticking to each other with bridging that should add some order to it all, but makes it seem even stranger. He lazily floats for a few more minutes before shaking it off and looking at the room, feeling like his grace is rebooting. He only slept for a few hours.

Sam pads into the bathroom and quickly orders his appearance before returning to the war room and waiting. He has a few more hours to think and do whatever (unless he returns to Heaven, but he wants to be here when Dean wakes up) and Dean should know if he's about to fly off.

He thinks about Nadiel's suggestion to choose a new name instead.

Not that angels don't often have multiple names over the course of their life, but they were created with one. Their True name imprinted in their grace, and it was custom that siblings call them by it even if they often went by a different one when they operated on Earth. When he changed his name, he asked Father to Rename him, but Heylel still left a mark on his grace, like a reminder of who he used to be.

He's not really Heylel anymore, but he's neither Sam nor Lucifer. None of those fit him as they did before. Maybe he could bring it up to Dean.

He marks the decision in his mind like a post-it note and moves on. Heaven's health is a priority, but at the rate he's going it will take years before he's done. He'll need to find an alternative with Nadiel and see if multiple healers could emulate what he's doing on one angel.

If they wish to get Hell back under their control, doing what he suggested to Jehoel could turn out well, but the lack of good soldiers Heaven has would become a large problem... Unless they were trained. They needed to be battle ready even if most angels didn't have experience in fighting with vessels, and for that he would need to pick out the best candidates for the others to learn from. Many regions of Heaven had training grounds for angels - some could fit an entire legion. Space would never be a problem in Heaven, especially with how empty it currently was, with all siblings in one region.

Dean wakes up around eight while Sam's already stopped pondering over the Celestial realm and is just drifting over memories. His head pokes around a corner, checking if Sam is gone already and grunting a 'good morning' when he sees him sitting at the table. Sam waves him over.

The human slumps into the chair opposite him, blinking with sleep encrusted eyes. “What's up?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something Nadiel said to me a while ago. It's pretty serious.” Sam answers, but keeps his tone relaxed, so Dean doesn't panic at his wording. He rubs his eyes to clear them properly. “Uh, okay. I need coffee for this. What did she say?”

Sam slides a steaming cup over the table and takes a deep breath. “She noticed how I wasn't sure about my name, so... maybe I should choose a new one. One that would be accepted as my new name and siblings could use.”

Dean eyes the coffee for a long moment, then after he decides it won't disintegrate (as if Sam would ever be that clumsy) he takes a sip. Then the meaning catches up to him. “You mean like, permanently change your name?”

“Well yeah. You can't switch up when you like it, this would be a whole thing. It's a small ceremony with an enochian incantation and everything.”

“Oh.” Dean seems to think for a moment. “Did you already have a name? Are you gonna pick something new or are you taking back your old one?” His eyes jump to his. “Do I call you that too?”

Sam gives him a half smile. “I'm not sure, that's why I wanted to talk to you about it. And nah, you get to call me Sam.” he grins. “Special privileges, bro.”

Dean only rolls his eyes. “Aha. Any ideas?”

Lucifer sighs and whips out a sheet of paper and a pen. Then he writes his names down in his elegant handwriting, one below the other. _Sam - Samuel, Heylel, Lucifer._

“There.” He states, and looks at them all, black on white. Dean looks at them too, and they stare at the sheet of paper for a few silent moments until Dean lifts up his coffee. “Not much choice over here.” He comments. “You can go back to Heylel,” he furrows his brow. “Or you could make up something new.” 

Sam hums, and Dean taps the paper with a nail of his index finger. “You could mix it up too, I guess.”

“I think...” Lucifer starts, face scrunched up in thought. “I can't go back to Heylel. I seems wrong. It's not who I am, it doesn't match my personality.”

Dean looks at him for some time, thinking. Sam is honestly surprised Dean isn't asking more questions, being more obviously skeptical or something, but he's going with the flow five minutes after popping up. “So you're down with this?” Sam carefully prods.

His brother sighs. “Yeah.” At Sam's holding look, he elaborates. “I don't like your name. It's screaming about, well _everything_. As long as you keep being Sam I'm good with you getting rid of the name Lucifer.”

Sam stares at him blankly. “Well, way to sugarcoat it, Dean.”

“Hey, we said we'd be honest. I'm just following my own rules.”

Sam sighs and turns the paper to himself. Then he gets an idea and raises his pen to partition the names into sections. Sam-uel, Luc-i-fer, Heyl-el... Dean watches him in amused confusion, a one of a kind look he hasn't seen in ages. “You gonna go mix it up then?”

Sam shrugs. “Making up a good name is hard and takes time, and I'm not sure about any of 'my existing' ones, mainly 'cause I'm not familiar. I'm trying this first.” When he's done, he glares a bit at the letters in the hope of a name revealing itself to him like a miracle.

“Gimme that.” Dean suddenly says and handily spins the paper around to himself. 

“Hey!” Sam snaps, but Dean just lifts it to his face and squints at the words before a teasing glint takes over. “Hmm, lots of glorious potential names.” He nods wisely. “Heylifer, Luciheyl... oh, Samifer, Hesamel, Lucuel...”

“Dean, this is serious!” Sam shrieks indignantly and leans over the table to snatch the list away from his wise-cracking brother, momentarily forgetting he can just teleport it to his hands. Dean laughs and tries to hold it as far back as he can, but misjudges just how long Sam's frame is and the archangel's hand tears it away at the cost of some awkward flopping around on the war room's table.

“Ha!” Sam exclaims as he once again holds the abused piece of paper. He plops back down triumphantly, wearing a smirk. Dean snorts and shakes his head before he stops. His soul drops from the easy vibrancy it spinned with just a moment ago to a clenched up, bitter state - it all serves to sober Sam up immediately as well.

They sit in an awkward, painful silence for a few seconds before Sam clears his throat. “Anyway.” He looks down and his heart feels like someone's been chaining lead weights to it. Then... “Actually, that last one...” He grabs for the pen and scribbles it down on the crumpled sheet.

He lifts it up for Dean, who's been staring at him with a haunted expression. “What about this one?” He asks, nervous and eager to get back to the light, relaxed conversation they had before. Like brothers.

Dean snaps himself out of his brief melancholic episode and reads it. “Luciel?” He asks. Sam slowly nods, watching while his brother mulls it over. “It's... not that bad actually.” Dean says. “It's softer, not like Heylel, but it goes well with your... situation, I guess. It's somewhere in between.”

Sam nods absent-mindedly and examines the name critically before he notices the meaning. The two parts of the name are in different languages, but an angel would notice it anyway. _El_ , meaning of God. Light of God. The suffix was one of the reasons he was hesitant to change his name the first time, and is now a reason he feels like he shouldn't take one with it. 

He's angry at his Father, and naming himself his son is something that would go against that, just as his inherent coding demands he changes himself to be as lovable as possible because he would feel more fulfilled by default. He wants his Father's approval the way Dean needs food, and he never thought about it as unnatural or dependent before, and he doesn't have the capacity to do otherwise.

“Hey Sam?” Dean asks, looking at him strangely. Lucifer looks up. “Huh? Oh. Sorry, just thinking.”

He decides he'll store this train of thought for later. They're not deciding right now. There's nothing solid getting picked, and he doesn't need to worry.

Dean shrugs. “Alright come on, say it. Does it sound right?” He pushes, leaning forward towards the archangel whose name they're discussing that might be spoken for the next eternity.

Said archangel has been sighing a lot in the past five minutes. “Fine.” He's not letting this go. He'll fuss over it later. “Luciel.” He says. It feels weird, like he's about to say the name he has now but then goes into a softer, less rocky direction than it usually does. “Luciel.” He says again.

It sounds more welcoming, smoother. It's more elegant than Lucifer, missing the roughness the _-fer_ would provide. He looks at Dean, who mimics his thoughtful expression.

“I sounds odd at first,” The human comments. “But it seems better after you say it in your head a lot.”

“Everything sounds better if you repeat it a lot.”

“True. _Luu_ ucieeel.” Dean drawls to himself. Sam glares daggers at him.

“Be respectful. Whatever name I choose is technically going to be sacred once I'm christened with it.” He states seriously. Dean accepts it with a shrug and a nod, but Sam suspects Dean would have made a joke about something like that a month ago.

Sam looks at the name again. “I'm gonna think about it. Ask Cas and the others too.”

Dean stops for a moment and looks at him. “When you say the others,” he asks slowly, “Do you mean angel friends or just management?” 

Ah, this is a little awkward now. He realizes if they continue in this direction the conversation will undoubtedly get serious, and he's honestly been enjoying it until now - it was the longest they've ever light heartedly talked to each other. “Uh, both I guess?” Sam squirms. “Nadiel and I are sort of friends, and Dumah and I are working on a better working relationship, which is also going well. Zuriel and the angels I've healed aren't afraid of me, so the general terror I cause is toning down a lot.”

Dean looks down at the table and traces some countries. Sam's learned to take it as a sign he's scared of whatever topic they're close to and acts cool while avoiding looking Sam in the eyes. “So you're... you know, getting close with your family again? Repairing relationships?”

“Yeah. The hierarchy will always be in the way, but I'm closer with some of them and I hope I can be closer. It's nice to have family again.”

Dean's jaw is working and his eyebrows are arching into the contorted shapes he sometimes makes that disguise the negative emotions he keeps in. “You know _I'm_ your family.” He says woodenly, wording it in that strange way he does when he can't properly articulate what he's feeling. Sam knows his brother needs assurance that he isn't leaving him for some random angels (how Dean probably thinks of them - Sam only sees he doesn't like discussing Lucifer's family with him.)

“You're my brother.” He nods slowly. Okay, this will be hard to say but they need to address it. Sam decides to play dirty just a tiny bit and words his sentence just a little differently than he could have. “But they're my family too,” He says, looking at Dean. “And they need help. I'm their older brother, and they've been my responsibility since they were created.”

He hopes Dean will understand if he puts it like that, and the hunter does. Except after a moment of realization his soul shudders with so much grief and anguish Sam's mouth goes lax. 

Maybe it was the one brotherly moment they just had, when everything seemed like old times, and it chipped away at Dean again. His absence, and now the absence of Cas (who Sam will bring back as soon as he can). 

For the first time in the last... three weeks or so, when did time pass? - Dean looks like he's breaking like a poorly made lego tower, crumbling down to its foundations. He looks down and closes his eyes. “I get that. Sam...”

His mouth twists and his green eyes are wet. “Shit, I feel like you're so far away.” He gasps out. “How did this happen, man? I want back the Sammy I raised, who I stole peanut butter for, who's shoelaces I tied. I can't-...”

This is so hard to listen to. Why do Sam's lungs burn so much? He shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have tried to manipulate Dean into forgiving him like the asshole he is. He wants to take it back now.

Dean looks at him with pained, hateful eyes, leaking tears. “ _You tortured him_. You tortured my little brother.” He takes a shuddering breath. Sam thinks he might be crying too, but he can't stop looking at Dean.

“I can't help you ease your guilt over the shit you've done.” Dean rasps. “I get that this is hard for you too. Crap, I can't imagine what it's like. But now you're...” He gestures around with his hand. “Getting into this Heaven archangel business and being with your _siblings_ and I can't help but think there's nothing left of Sam. That I'm losing him all the way.”

Dean puts his elbows on the table and hides his face in his hands. “Is there even a point? Should I just give up and go after you like a hunter or leave you to be in Heaven? Because if I can't save you... if there's nothing left to save...”

Sam looks down now, lips pressed together so he doesn't have to taste the salt that makes it down to his chin. This is so fucking _painful_. He shouldn't be feeling this so strongly. But it hurts and it makes him want to scream at Dean as much as it makes him want to sob into his shoulder while he clings to him.

“Would it-” Sam starts quietly, “Would it help if we talked about it? The Cage?”

Dean takes a shaky breath. “I dunno, man. I don't think I'm ready to hear about it.” He picks at the corner of the paper with the names, a menagerie of pretty scribbles with one at the bottom. He brushes his fingers over the name Luciel.

Sam swallows. “Me neither, you know. It happened to me, too, I wasn't just doing the torturing. I don't like thinking about it.”

Well if that isn't an understatement.

Dean's breathing is unsteady and Sam knows the hunter wants to help him through that time, has always wished Sam would open up and tell him about it. But this. Thinking about it is insane, trying to explain it would be impossibly harder. How did they get from lightly choosing a name to the one conversation they've both dreaded since day one?

“Dean, Lucifer...” Sam's breath catches on his words. Dean needs to know all this more than he needs to know who Heylel was. “When he first got out he made it a point not to lie to Sam. As a form of... respect, because he knew Sam would be born from when humanity was first in design.”

Dean stares intently at him, holding his breath. Sam continues, trying to start from a point that isn't so painful, so that he can work up to the hard parts later. “But Sam was a reflection of who _Heylel_ was, and that... version of the archangel. He would have hated what Lucifer became after the Mark,” Sam gets out. It's the truth anyways. 

“He made sure Sam knew what he'd be getting into with saying yes from that first visit. And when I... I mean when Sam said yes. Lucifer tried to show him why his side was right. Why that was perfect.”

He knows he's stalling, gritting out awkward sentences, but getting to the actual Cage with Dean is the hardest thing he has had to attempt in all his life as a mixed up human-archangel. He needs more time so badly, but it doesn't want to slow down for him.

“Lucifer wanted revenge, that was obvious. It's hard being isolated for thousands of years, and you know how Hell makes it seem like time is crawling by at a snail's pace. It didn't do wonders for my mental state. Maybe Dad hoped if he'd give me some time I'd bounce back from the Darkness, but that was bullshit.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I'm not trying to make you sympathize with me. But I need you to know that getting locked up again was my greatest fear. I'd have rather let Michael kill me.” Dean keeps his face impassive, and Lucifer is grateful for it. “When I - when Sam - threw all of us down there again, I lost it. I think my mind fell apart and I couldn't stop screaming for a good while. Michael attacked Lucifer at first.”

He laughs a bitter, sad laugh. “We fought like rabid animals and neither of us could win down there. We just needed to vent all the pent up shit from the millennia we've had to store it out on each other. Sam stopped fighting possession and shut himself away.”

Dean blinks his eyes clear. “Sam was possessed in the Cage?”

The archangel nods. “Until Cas took my body up and it threw us both out. It's a lot less painful being inside than manifesting your True form, especially if it's damaged.” He shudders and looks away from Dean. “It took a while to recover from that. It's different for True vessels, and trying to get used to being alone again took... time.” Shame colors his cheeks and he's sure Dean knows what he's leaving out by the way his mouth opens and closes in realization, shock and a little bit of disgust.

He wants to change the subject. Dean didn't know what that particular possession felt like, and he would only ever know if he said yes to Michael. That will never happen.

“After that, I mostly tried to keep myself from being collateral.” He says, leaving that topic alone.

Dean clenches his fists. “How long did that last? Until... Lucifer remembered Sam was there?”

LuciferSam sighs. “Oh he remembered all the time. You don't forget the person who makes your worst nightmare come true. He was just busy with his murderous older brother until they backed off and took a break. Not that Michael wasn't pissed off as well.”

He breathes for a while. This is the hardest part right here. He tries to think of a way to say it, from which perspective, then decides to keep talking in third person.

“At first it was just taking out his rage on Sam. Violence that wasn't that efficient, just a lot of screaming and destroying.” 

Dean's lips are a thin line, and Sam needs to take a moment to get his voice steady and collect himself before he continues. His hands shake, so he hides them under the table and grips the seat of his chair. “Later, he started being more... precise. He...” Oh god he doesn't want to talk about this. Why is he even keeping at it? He should fly away. “It was as much shame and horror he could get Sam to feel. It was fucked up, not because it was torture, but because a lot of the time, it _wasn't_.”

Dean keeps quiet, but the confusion and fear of his soul is obvious. 

“When Alistair tortured you, he had a goal and it was to break you.” Sam rasps out. “There, Lucifer kept Sam as intact as possible through the entire thing. He wanted...” He screws his eyes shut for a moment, feels the wetness when his eyelids press together. “Dammit, you know I want people to love me. I needed me to do that, too.”

Dean looks like he wants to run away, scared and disgusted and shocked and worried. It hurts. It hurts so much.

“I know it's shit, but you can't say you haven't suspected it wasn't just pain.” Sam croaks quietly. “It was a year and a half and felt even longer, anyone would lose their mind if it was just torture.”

Dean gives a shaky nod. “So it was... pleasure?” He gets the word out like he's forcing it through a closing throat that doesn't want it to escape. The word doesn't correctly describe what Dean means, because what he wants to say could never equate with what happened. Pleasure is something that is enjoyed. (It's bliss, and in the Cage that happened to be possession. Sam can't remember how many times he said yes down there. Lucifer remembers the exact number.)

Sam wants to throw up again. He weakly shakes his head, trying to go back to an emotionless recounting. 

He's telling Dean about what happened. He's telling him about the worst thing he's ever done - at least to Dean, since he's done a lot of bad - and he thinks he'd rather shred his own grace into pieces. He'd rather cut out his tongue with his archangel blade and gargle his blood like fucking mouthwash if he wouldn't have to finish this conversation.

This is the most screwed up thing that's ever happened to him and he thinks maybe he does hate his Father with all he has right now, for the first time in eternity.

“Not- uhm...” _How?_ “I mean, nobody but Michael had a body anyway... And angels don't have any carnal needs, so if it happened it wasn't actually...” He's rambling and stalling and Dean just wants to know whether or not he raped his little brother. If it happened to him. If he did it to himself.

He knows, in the end, it doesn't matter _how_ Lucifer did it - whether it only happened in Sam's head while he watched it like a telenovela. It doesn't, because it doesn't make it any better. 

“A-a lot of it was in my head, literally, just strings of memories and experiences that...” Maybe he can swerve. Dean is enjoying this about as much as him, looking deathly pale, nauseous and shaking like he's about to maul Lucifer with his bare hands.

“Sam had a lot of emotions that Lucifer could use.” He says slowly. He can feel Dean looking at him while he stares at the wall. “It was iso- isolation too. And he knew how to be...” He searches for words. “Normal. Civil. Nice even. You can't be alone for too long, so you'd rather play Russian roulette for a nice encounter or a lot of torture. The breaks I had kept me sane, and they gave me... hope, I guess.”

Okay. Okay, just a little longer. He won't bail again.

Dean suddenly intakes a sharper breath and puts his hands on the table. “What was the Cage like? As a place.” 

He's asking for a break. Sam readily indulges him.

“It's a locked pocket universe at the bottom of Hell. It's nothingness. The absence of everything, of color and sound and most of your senses. You drift with nothing to distract you until...” He falters. “It's not much you wouldn't give to see something.”

“Even for the devil.” Dean adds rhetorically. Sam nods anyway.

Dean falls silent and closes his eyes. It's morning, and Sam's sharp hearing can catch the birds chirping outside of the bunker, heralding a warm sunny day. Dean is still in his pajamas. 

“Did you deserve it?” Dean suddenly asks. It's a quiet, misshapen question Dean is only asking so he doesn't get the answers he wants but hates to know. “The Cage. Chuck said you weren't a villain. But he can't have put you in there just because you didn't wanna bend over for us.”

That's something to mull over. Before, Lucifer refused to take complete responsibility for what got him down there, and he liked painting himself as a victim. Now, he feels the blame and the guilt, every death on his hands. It was the Mark, sure, but he still _did it._

“To be honest, it wasn't for nothing.” He answers. “There was a rebellion, everyone who didn't want to bow down to anyone but Father, and hundreds of angels died. It wouldn't have happened without the Mark, and by the end I wasn't thinking clearly, but...”

Dean looks away, rubbing his right arm where the Mark used to be. That thought makes Sam sick now. “It feels like it was all you.” Dean states, looking at something Lucifer can't see - but he can guess.

“Dean, what you did wasn't your fault, and neither was what you did as a demon.” Sam says quietly. 

Dean gives him a sharp, bitter look. What he thinks goes unsaid. If it's not Dean's fault, than it's not Lucifer's either. And that's _not a thing,_ it's an unacceptable thought. Dean's actions weren't personal, they didn't impact, they were inconsequential. Lucifer's will never be forgiven, they will never not be his fault.

Sam almost imperceptibly shrugs. There's nothing to say, really. What's done is done and there's no changing it. They can only go forward.

Dean slowly exhales through his mouth. “I need to think. Alone,” he adds, “So this one time I'd appreciate it if you weren't here.”

Sam nods in acceptance. If Dean needs a break from his face, he'll gladly give it to him. It's not like Lucifer can look him in the eyes right now anyway. “I'll send Cas down when I can.” He tells Dean quietly, then stands up and spreads his wings, the long primaries passing through the bunker's walls when he flaps and takes to the Astral plane.

What he told Dean will stay and fester in his brain, spurring his hatred of Chuck and Lucifer. Dean will never look at him the same way again.

But he knows that even without all the things he said, their relationship wouldn't have survived what happened, not really. 

This isn't something their brotherly bond could overcome. It's been deteriorating since LuciferSam first opened his mouth and told Dean to deal with it. It's been falling apart, the meaning of _Sam and Dean Winchester_ crumbling into shambles.

He wonders how long it will be before it's gone. Before what makes him Sam finally disappears from Dean's mind and solidifies into just a memory for Dean to mourn. 

The angels aren't interested in the human part of him at all. Nobody would ever think of calling him Sam, or ask about his human past.

Because now, Sam is just an origin story no one really cares about. And when he changes his name one day, he'll really be gone forever, along with Lucifer. It'll just be him, whoever he is.

It's an old feeling, a tired, resigned realization. It's just history repeating itself for him, again - even if this time around it won't go in as dark a direction as it did before, it still hurts the part of him that yearns to have an identity he can hold on to, a persona he has control over. 

He felt that way about his life as Heylel. Not just the archangel, but who he was before the Fall in general. He was that calm, quiet archangel for billions of years, far longer than he had been the devil, but nobody remembered that - maybe they refused to, maybe he was just Heaven's greatest shame, the greatest mistake they needed to hide to cover up their faults. _Father's_ faults.

Everyone forgot that the devil is the same person who preened his siblings' wings or painted the feathers of the first birds in exotic colors. It was like everything memorable about him started with his Fall. His _new_ , far more known life.

But Lucifer's life ended with the Fall. The world went on, creating someone to take his place, continuing his life for him. 

Barely anything happened to Lucifer; he was there, succumbing to the madness of his own thoughts while his new identity slowly sewed itself into the world.

It's happening all over again. Something dark, tenuous and grieving bubbles up in his chest, so washed out he can barely name the feeling. He's so useless, unable to do anything about it. With no control, no chance to make a decision before it was made for him.

The anger he constantly feels simmering and lying in wait is so tired, stale, so overused, half willing to just give up and let itself be devoured by his hopelessness.

For a few moments, he doesn't want to do this anymore. 

He wants to stop. He wonders what would happen if he gave up and stilled, let the Universe slip away while he wallows, refused to keep dancing to a tune he doesn't know the melody of, playing a game blindfolded and uninformed.

It's tempting him; his jumbled, broken mind playing with the morbid idea of stepping away from it all, before he slaps himself.

It doesn't matter. Dean needs him, or at least he needs Cas. His siblings need his help, and he's not a coward and he won't be so selfish as to deny them something he can give because he's so concerned with his own stupid life, which he doesn't even know or can make sense of.

He gathers up the dregs of determination and calm he diligently keeps at the edges of himself and tries not to think about it as he flies upward towards Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone among the readers have any other ideas for a name? 
> 
> It doesn't necessarily need to be a mix of the two, it can be anything. I'm considering having Gabe suggest the name Iblīs in the future, as he was the one who told the story to humanity because what people were saying upset him (Iblis being the actual spn version of the devil, about an angel who refused to bow down to anyone but God, because he loved him too much and said he was better than humans, ya'll can read it on the internet) but a new name won't come into play for a long while yet.


	14. Looking Through From The Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much happens in this filler chapter, but it includes an outsider's pov so we get a better idea of how the angels view LuciferSam! It's very dialogue heavy, though

When Sam arrives back to Heaven, his first destination is Castiel. Heaven's halls are hard to navigate, and he doesn't want to send out a signal, so he prods at rooms with his grace until he finds himself in a recovery room of sorts.

It's white - like everything else - but holds soft tones of blue and beige as well, casting it into a cozy atmosphere. Sam stops and leans on the door frame while he watches in curiosity. Lailah and Castiel are both stationed in front of an envesseled cherub guard who's trying his hardest to manifest an injured part of his true form. 

Wounds of grace, regardless of what celestials like to say, heal at a slow pace. Scratches and gashes made can leave lasting scars like paler lines of light, and given the number of healers and Heaven's priorities in the last years, angels leak grace and flit wounded over the place regularly. 

There's a cut, likely a slash of a blade across the limb of the guard whose Light bears the name Rikbiel.

“If you start at the surface, the wound won't heal.” Lailah says firmly. “You need to search out the deepest point and stitch the wound from the inside out.”

Castiel nods, the tendrils of his midnight blue power prodding at Rikbiel. Sam can tell he noticed him, and gives him an interested glance while the seraph keeps his focus on healing. Lailah turns fully to him but doesn't stand, instead only bowing down her head. “Hello, brother. Did you need Castiel for something?”

Sam gives her a one sided smile. “Yep. If that's okay, Cas should be taking a break down on Earth right now.” He voices it like a question and looks at Castiel, who bites his lips and looks at the cherub he's clumsily treating. Lailah however doesn't take Sam's words as something to be considered and gestures for Castiel to stand up and go with the archangel before taking to the guard's injury herself.

Sam steps outside to wait until his friend comes after him. “Is Dean waiting for me?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah. I got yelled at for this already, now it's your turn.” Sam smirks at the way Castiel grimaces. “Then I should probably hurry.” His fully feathered wings are already unfurling, but Sam swiftly stops him before he can fly away.

“Just one thing.” He rushes, trying to get this out before he could change his mind. “Nadiel suggested choosing a new name, and I've been thinking about that. Just... wanted to know your thoughts.”

Castiel's eyebrows knit together. “You've... already chosen one?”

Sam winces. “Uh, no. No, I was just... brainstorming. Aiming for something in between maybe.”

“I see.” Castiel blinks, cocking his head to the side in thought. “It might be a good idea, I suppose. It's entirely up to you. Though...” He hesitates for a moment, and Sam has the distinct impression that he's cringing and trying to cover it up with awkwardness. “Perhaps you should wait a bit? It hasn't been long, especially for you, and you're not really sure of-” Castiel stops himself when he accidentally crashes into sensitive territory, pulling away and rewording it. “There's been so many changes, so thinking before something this drastic might... be good for you. If you change your mind later.”

Lucifer blinks, and he consciously stops himself from frowning. Either Castiel thinks he's rushing into the idea because he's clinging to something certain, because the idea makes him uncomfortable, or because he thinks there's a chance of just-Sam returning, he doesn't know. But he's fairly sure this isn't one of his impulsive actions. “Right, yeah. You're probably right there.” Sam says after the pause starts becoming uncomfortable. “See you later, Cas.”

Castiel blinks, considering saying something else, but abandoning the idea and saying goodbye instead. He watches as the seraph spreads his wings and his vessel takes on the bluish, translucent light quality of the astral plane before he dives away with a strong, eager beat of his wings. Sam wishes he could fly with him, see the joy of Castiel's returned flight, but he's ashamed. Castiel will undoubtedly know what Dean and he talked about, and if he stole a moment now, his younger brother would begrudge him for it later.

Instead, he goes searching for Nadiel.

The corridors are all the same, endless and confusing. They're a maze, and while all the angels fly above it, he's down on the ground where the map of it is out of his complete understanding. He can only fly to the places he's already been.

So he does, hoping Nadiel might be in the small infirmary of the human section. She isn't, but he spots Aralim and strides over to her. “Sister,” He greets, “Where's Nadiel? I need to talk to her.”

Aralim tilts her head. “I don't know. I could call her for you?” She offers, and Sam gives her a quick nod. The healer can reach out to Nadiel over the Host's mind without intruding on her with a direct prayer like he would have to. 

The younger angel gives a nod when she's done, and Sam tries to make small talk to pass the time. Aralim looked like she was having a break, and Nadiel will need a moment to get there. “How are the siblings you're treating?” Sam asks.

Aralim gives him a small, almost meek smile. “Quite well. We haven't had any complications, and they're excited about flying again. Many are also sick of needing vessels and plan to leave as soon as they can. Or when they have permission.” She adds as an afterthought. Of course, there were certain jobs that needed to be completed in physical forms.  
  
Sam hums. “Vessels can be confining.” It's more of a mumble to himself, but it is true. While it opens possibilities their True forms do not, it's disorienting to feel so... small. It dulls certain senses and forces them into a shape with only four limbs and two eyes, which can be difficult to get used to. While they can unravel their wings out of their Forms and add them to their vessels, it's harder to fly - human bodies don't have the proper anatomy to accommodate wings.

He turns his grey eyes down, thinking about it all, and he suddenly misses the flexibility and movement of his own Form, back when it was whole.

He thinks that maybe, he could temporarily get out of his vessel somewhere private. Away from everyone else, so that nobody would have to see him, just in case he's just as damaged and shredded as he used to be - but given that his wings, although changed, have been restored to a few thin scars, and he doesn't feel the painful tension that comes with injuries, he's fairly sure he's been at least _mostly_ healed.

He's been curious for a while, but it suddenly hits him like a burning itch. This is something he's refused to face for almost three weeks. Putting it off, distracting himself with other things. This is different than just avoiding mirrors, it goes far deeper, and he knows how unhealthy and downright worrisome it is that he refuses to know what he looks like.

“Brother?” Aralim interrupts his rushing thoughts, her voice hesitant. “Are you alright?”

Lucifer jerks himself out of his musings and stretches his vessel's face into a smile. “Ah, yep. Just dandy.” 

Luckily, Nadiel walks through the door just about then, her space blue wings dropping in respect when she stops at them. Strangely enough, Lucifer doesn't welcome the gesture - he wants Nadiel to be relaxed around him.

“Hey, sis. Listen, this entire healing thing where I have to be here all the time? It takes way too long. At this rate we won't fix everyone in the next year.” He says, getting straight to the point without flowering it up. Nadiel already looks panicked he's decided to abandon his goal. “We need to find a way for a group of you guys to do what I'm doing, or at least make my involvement less... crucial.”

Nadiel blinks, her worry dissipating. “Oh! Yes, that's a good idea.” 

She looks at the doors and back to him, her hazel eyes flashing with quick thoughts. “I'll call a meeting with the healers, if you don't mind. Dumah and the other leaders said they need to speak to you.”

They would probably want to, given Lucifer's escape last time; he's told Ophaniel and Jehoel they should come the next time he'd be healing, and he vomited out all sorts of ideas for Heaven's hopefully brighter future they will probably want to discuss. He gives her an affirmative answer and takes a deep breath. Even if this takes a day, he's not in a hurry. Dean won't want to see him for a good while.

  
* * *

Aralim had been losing hope for Heaven's recovery for years now. She'd been called hopeful before - insisting on treating injuries that would make another healer call a Rit Zien and gently put the suffering sibling to eternal sleep, or trying to find and help other fallen brothers and sisters after Metatron's spell had banished them to Earth.

Heaven was once a place of love, joy and beauty; siblings fluttering together over the paths of the Spheres and taking satisfaction in completing duties so that they could come back to their flock and rest. It first began falling apart with Lucifer's rebellion, and only got worse in the last decade. 

Without the second archangel, Michael withdrew away from the Host and was rarely seen in the last dozen millennia. Father was never seen either, and after a while rumors began that he wasn't there at all anymore.

Raphael grew cold and distant, their sapphire eyes growing stormy and dark. They weren't nearly as gentle and caring as they were, and angels that always flocked to them for guidance or healing started avoiding Raphael instead.

Not to mention Gabriel. Out of all the archangels, the youngest one was the most popular and the most often seen, flitting place to place and greeting them with playful exuberance. Their bubbly personality lifted everyone's spirits, and they were always willing to socialize and sing with the choirs. Aralim adored Gabriel, and expressed her concern when the archangel wilted and sank into depression with the fighting that started breaking out more and more often among their older brothers. It was breaking the heart of every sibling they raised and taught how to fly, to see them so sorrowful.

Heaven started sinking to its downfall long before they sent those first garrisons to Earth years ago. That just sped it all up, along with the third archangel's newfound obsession with the apocalypse, driven by faith and desperate to bring Father back to them.

Now, Raphael and Gabriel are both presumed dead and Michael is locked in the Cage. Aralim misses the way they all used to be - and she knows she didn't even experience the best of it all, eons ago.

She wonders whether Heaven's future, the one nobody wants to talk about but all know was bleak and grim, is slowly changing for the better. 

Lucifer comes and goes, a fleeting presence that until now has only brought good. An unstable source of help they all hope will return, even though it's obvious his assistance comes at his leisure - Or at least that's the common opinion that has been slowly shifting with every angel who walked out of the infirmary with healed wings.

His Light is strange; a scarred, pretty grace interwoven with a soul, fueled by good intentions and rough, edgy kindness, backdropped by suppressed rage.

He's mostly an enigma they all wonder about, especially with the little crumbs of information he allows them - whether he's doing it to keep them guessing or because he genuinely doesn't want them to know out of insecurity, Aralim isn't entirely sure. Nadiel would not tell her, so she doesn't ask her.

Sometimes he comes and his grace is cold with bitter sadness that Aralim wonders about - so does everyone else, but they don't dare ask where he goes when he isn't in Heaven. Though given his words about Sam Winchester, Aralim has a good idea of where he might be flying to. They don't understand entirely what he meant by being the human, but everything from the gentleness that leaks out beneath his fingers to his hesitance in choosing a name reveals that there is far more to it that he tells them. And Aralim might not have seen him that many times, but she knows just like everyone else Lucifer used to have white wings.

Dumah had been calling meetings discussing their plans for the future, plans both including Lucifer and the Host's usual organization. The suspicion that accompanied Lucifer's appearance and offer has been lessening, and angels don't speculate about his hidden motives as much, content to accept the gift horse and desperately pray it won't buck and run away. 

Aralim is certain Lucifer doesn't have any other motives, and so are Dumah and Nadiel; but he's known to be unpredictable and capricious, and Aralim can see those traits to be very much true. His grace is newly dark with remorse nobody dares speak about to him, but every healer that has worked with Lucifer has seen glimpses of it. 

Aralim isn't wary of him anymore. She isn't scared anymore either, unafraid even when an ugly anger that seems to hang around him threatens to snap at them. He doesn't seem bad, just rough around the edges. She catches the way his pale face softens and his lips crank up in a smile when he sees a younger sibling happy, the way he basks in their excitement. It's infectious, and the room always seems brighter afterwards. Does he know he's doing it? It doesn't seem so, and Lucifer hides that affection under his usual mask soon after. She wishes he didn't feel the need to do that, like Gabriel.

He looks almost _nervous_ , standing rigidly while Nadiel calls a meeting, his wings plastered into a very badly faked relaxed stance. It's strange seeing it on an archangel, but it also makes him less otherworldly to lesser angels, less unreachable and cold. He seems... normal. 

Nadiel selects one of the rooms close to the infirmary as a meet up point. The older healer must have chosen it for a good reason - a more comfortable room, smaller, almost resembling a human heaven instead of their empty white spaces. It's a place the healers had designed for their meetings long ago, their values being closer to soft comfort and warm atmospheres instead of cold professionalism.

She watches Nadiel and Lucifer enter while she waits outside for her siblings. Acheliah and Zarall are the first to arrive, having been closer to them as Rit Zien, and they greet her with anxious murmurs, glancing at where Nadiel and Lucifer are quietly conversing inside. 

“What's this about?” Zarall asks, his brown eyes wide. 

“Lucifer wants to find a way for us to heal wings without needing his help so much,” Aralim shrugs, keeping her voice down. “So it'll go faster. And the leaders want to talk to him.”

Acheliah nods, glancing between them distrustfully. “I heard he hasn't said much at all.”

Aralim grimaces. It's true, but she's seen him enough to be angry on his behalf when the other's opinions are worse than the archangel deserves. A few years ago, such thoughts would be cause for guilt on her part, considered blasphemous in the general belief they all had regarding their fallen brother, that was still sticking wih some of the younger siblings, spread to Earth and among the humans.

The three head angels appear around a corner just that moment, Jehoel striding side by side with Dumah, who holds a thin book close to her vessel's chest while they talk amongst themselves. Aralim straightens and steps to the side, letting them pass her as they enter. Ophaniel smiles warmly at her as he walks by.

The three healers follow them, and Zarall softly closes the door behind them, the sound getting absorbed into the interior instead of echoing like it does in the hallways. The floor is wooden here, the entire space cast in brown and beige tones with bookshelves lining the far wall. The others seat themselves at the large table - a rounded square rather than a table that would mark the head speaker. 

It easily fits the eight of them, and Aralim knows that Nadiel requested for three other healers to join them when they start making the mending plans. She sits down, her smaller vessel a head shorter than most of the others.

She watches as Lucifer takes a deeper breath before splaying his hands on the table. “Hey, everyone. You all already know why you're here since I'm assuming Nadiel gave you the bare-bones, so let's get right to it. Healing everyone has turned out to be a long term goal.” He states simply. “I suggested we should find a way for multiple healers to emulate what I'm doing. Dumah pointed this out already, but we also need a proper system, especially since we still need access to Earth if we want to get Hell back into manageable levels.”

Jehoel leans forward. “You proposed establishing a tighter hold on Hell and surveillance of their affairs - along with patrolling the Gates again. For that, we need capable soldiers, which we don't have.”

The head cherub, Ophaniel, turns forward as well. “Even if we have siblings that are restored to their full power, most of them lack any proper experience. My division is trained in guard duty, but we're not fighters.” 

Lucifer thinks for a moment before speaking again. “True, they need practice, especially in vessels. There has to be multiple ways we can get them proper training.” His upturned eyes snap to Jehoel. “We can work out a training regime. If you fight in a human vessel, you gotta know how to fight like a human as well.”

“The healers should be in top condition if they'll help,” The archangel continues thoughtfully. “I can heal a primary team first, then I can go on with batches of three and include a healer per two soldiers. Weed out our best fighters and put together flights that will train together.”

Jehoel hums thoughtfully. “They could be evaluated and set to teach if they have good experience.”

Lucifer grimaces and shakes his head. “I don't think we have enough experienced angels, and we need genuinely good trainers for that. I was actually thinking of using the souls.”

Aralim scrunches up her face in confusion, and all others hold varying degrees of the same expression. Lucifer shrugs. “There's a shit-ton of people up here who spent decades of their life fighting. Except they're utterly useless right now, just a bunch of barely aware glowing lights. Who says we can't bust them out and learn something?”

This gets a reaction. The human souls have never been used for anything but occasionally a power grab, exploited for their energy - they're only there because they've always been, because this is how Father designed it and that is not questioned; but they've never been _consulted_ on anything.

Nadiel and Ophaniel seem intrigued, Dumah is surprised, and Jehoel looks incredibly skeptical. “Humans cannot match angels.” He says, putting all his disbelief and surety into the four words. 

Lucifer smirks, leaning back into his chair with the same supremacy most angels have when it comes to the comparison between humans and angels. “'Course not. They can't teach us grace work to implement or include our nature into fighting techniques.” His expression suddenly turns serious. “But that doesn't mean you should underestimate their fighting abilities. The hand to hand combat you guys can't do because many of you can't spin in a circle without tripping is more than enough to get you killed.”

Jehoel shuts his mouth, taking the words seriously and thinking it over. 

Lucifer has a good point. The demons are all adept at possessing humans because their true forms are humanoid - something that stays even if they stray from their humanity. Angels neither have stable forms nor were they ever human. They can take the knowledge and memories from their vessels, but that's the extent of it.

“I think it's a good idea.” Aralim speaks up, making the others turn to her. “We can train without leaving the safety of Heaven, and we have access to many different styles of combat.”

Lucifer blinks at her, impassive eyes softening in pleasant surprise at her support.

“I can visit the Archives and check for the kind of souls we need later.” Dumah says thoughtfully. Lucifer whips his head around to her with a strange expression. “I'll come with you.” He says quickly. Dumah looks baffled by it, but she just gives him an awkward nod.

Jehoel brushes it off to continue with the discussion. “That is still something that will take time,” He says. “We can put an estimate of at least a few months on it. And the speed of healing is a big factor as well.” He looks hesitantly at the archangel.

Lucifer scratches at his face and stares at the wooden table, lost in thought. Silence fills the room for a few long moments. “I think...” He starts, eyebrows knitting together. “I have a few days right now, and I can be here every day after.” He decides slowly, seeming strangely resigned about what he's saying. “We need to put together a list so we know which angels come first. And assuming we can get other healers on this, it'll go even faster.”

Dumah shifts in her seat, dragging the attention to her as she lifts up the handbook Aralim noticed before. She holds it up to Lucifer, who takes it from her with a slightly apprehensive expression. “I had a few siblings compile a list of all the living angels,” Dumah explains quietly. “They're organized by rank and division, and I've marked the ones who have already been healed.”

Aralim winces as she looks at the thin record book, probably only a few pages covered by a thicker, blank sheet of paper. They know how many of them are still left, but to see it so plainly hurts. 

Lucifer has a similar reaction, barely concealed dread and grief clouding his grey eyes as he opens it. It's angled towards him, but Aralim can see the letters just fine from where she's sitting a few chairs away; every name with neatly added information to the right of it. Dumah started with the highest ranks and worked downwards, and she can see the short list of remaining seraphim, Castiel included. There's a tiny inked rune at the tail of his row, signifying his healed status.

The archangel's eyes move down the page, tracing every name. His mouth is a thin line. Silence settles on the room, this moment holding weight unlike any, demanding a pause for the grief and respect of their fallen siblings. 

Lucifer takes his time turning the pages, his mask of indifference a clear sign he's controlling his vessel into holding back whatever his face would have twisted into otherwise even while his grace slows its spinning into a dripping pace. There's a small group of remaining intelligence angels on the third page - keepers of archives, gatherers of knowledge and watchers - Lucifer's old division. After the soldier malakhim, they were the very first to be pushed into their old roles, and their numbers dwindled until there was barely a couple dozen left. Lucifer runs his thumb over the names and blinks his eyes; something angels normally aren't required to do.

The others all stay quiet while he goes through the record book, politely looking away from his face while he reads, dealing with this information in their own ways.

Aralim looks down at the hands se keeps folded in her lap, her own Light painting itself in blues and dark grays. There's so many siblings she loved that she will never see again, their Voices forever snuffed out of the Host's symphony, and while she tries not to think about them all the time, she remembers them in her private moments. 

She used to be in a medic flight with three other healers, each one of them with a unique skillset, but the groups had all dispersed after the Fall to Earth. Eventually, the other members were killed off and Aralim was the only remaining angel.   
She feels so lonely, despite the company offered to her by Nadiel and her friends. Nothing could replace a tightly knit flock, and Aralim doesn't want to join someone else either. 

For a moment, she wonders how that must have been for Lucifer and the other archangels. The Fallen one lost his entire flock, and the others lost two members with Gabriel's disappearance. She can't imagine being completely alone, both in her head and outside. She's never been to Hell either, but she knows it's a horrific place.

Lucifer closes the book and sets it down once he finishes, leans back and sighs, covering his eyes with his hands. “Heaven's gone to hell in a handbasket, hasn't it.” He says hopelessly, his otherwise clear voice cracking as he sums up Heaven's degradation in one crude sentence.

Everyone else stays quiet (well, the healers have been silent the entire time anyway, waiting until the topic shifted to their area of expertise) to see what he'll say as a remark on their situation. Aralim isn't sure what to expect; given what she knows Lucifer is genuinely grieving, but his defense mechanism is often to mock perilous circumstances. 

He exhales a deep breath and straightens up to look at them all, taking in all the defeated faces. “It's a crappy situation, guys,” He starts, searching for appropriate words and failing, at least by angelic standards, “And I won't jinx it by saying it can't get worse than it is. But...”

Lucifer closes his eyes for a moment, tensing and relaxing. His voice steadies and hardens, decisive and sure like a lifeline for them to hold onto. “We haven't hit rock bottom and we can get through it. We'll fix up everyone and get Heaven running like it's supposed to. The Host is a priority above Hell, as is your safety. And I'll make sure,” He touches the thin record book with his right hand, running it over the cover. “That nobody gets crossed off this list.”

Silence meets him, woven from surprise and respect at his words, the promise he hid in them, a vow of help. Not only to help with recovery, but to do his best ensuring nobody else dies. It doesn't sound like a lie, it's not a plastic forgery of a speech Michael could have made to encourage them before a fight; it rings with sincerity the kind Aralim doubted Lucifer to be capable of.

He is met with quiet admiration, and turns his face away from it and towards the book again, searching for words that would avoid commendation or praise he doesn't want. Aralim understands that - he hasn't done much yet, and praise would not be deserved yet. He is not shallow or empty, and won't bask in misplaced glory. That would only lead to guilt, and Lucifer has more than enough of that.

“Alright then, let's work on that healing order.” He speaks up lightly, dispelling the almost ceremonial silence cast upon the room. 

Dumah nods curtly. “We can be efficient and delegate the planning. Jehoel, Ophaniel and myself can work on the sequence while you work with Nadiel and her team on the new method. We can pick the... souls later and the training regime can be worked out.”

“Sure. We'll meet up again later.” Lucifer agrees. Anything else can be discussed over the shared mind of Heaven, where they can keep up with each other's progress without delay or difficulty - that is, everyone except Lucifer.

Aralim feels her grace knot at that thought; not only because Lucifer will need proxies to communicate for him, because he needs to be physically there to speak during meetings, but also because she can't imagine being alone, without the quiet murmur of her siblings always caressing her mind, fading in and out and including her in conversations. *

It's bad enough now that it's so quiet.

Lucifer stands up and gestures to the healers to come with him while the others gather closer together to discuss their own task. Nadiel walks beside the archangel and Aralim listens to her words as she suggests a volunteer for them to practice on before sending out a wide query over their link. 

In a minute, a willing brother is on his way to the infirmary along with four more Rit Zien, and Lucifer is comparing the beginning energy burst he does with what a group of healers could do.

Aralim is so excited her vessel's steps feel lighter when her shoes hit the ground. She imagines Heaven as it was, siblings fluttering, wings flapping, gentle hands carding through her own russet feathers. Joyous impatience coils in her stomach, making her hands shake. She stills them. 

Ebriel, the cherub guard who volunteered to be experimented on (though there was no danger given how many would be watching over him) is already shrugging off his topmost layer of clothing and stepping nervously from foot to foot. His vessel is a teenager, a sporty one by the look of it, his greenish soul buried deep in Ebriel's grace and sleeping.

A healer is beside him, calming his nerves with her soothing tone, and Aralim smiles and gently prods at her friend's grace to playfully greet her, dispelling the tension for both of them. Saniel turns around and smiles, showing off her teeth.

The other Rit Zien slips past the group to come up beside her while the others look to the archangel as he starts explaining what they'll do again. Aralim brushes against her with her Light, letting Saniel in on her excitement, some of her vibrant tangerine splashing onto her friend and making her grace ring with a quiet, flute-like sound, a nervous giggle.

Nadiel sets her hands on Ebriel's shoulders while Lailah does the same - the two recovered healers would be most effective out of all of them. The head healer gives her a meaningful, stern glance, and Aralim quickly joins them, feeling her vessel's cheeks flush with blood in embarrassment. She has more experience than the others, so her assistance would be called on first.

Lucifer leans forward on the bed frame where he stands, watching with hawk-like precision. Nadiel carefully wraps her Light around Ebriel like an embrace and the others start to mimic her, transferring and sharing grace.

Aralim tires out first, of course, trembling in exhaustion like she just attempted a flight all the way to the Twin Quasar without stopping for rest.

“Saniel.” Lucifer calls, and her friend smoothly takes her place. Aralim stands up on wobbly knees, eyes set on the nearest resting place, and almost jerks in surprise when Lucifer grabs her by the bicep and steadies her on her way. He doesn't look at her and his face is expressionless, but his overwhelmingly powerful grace skims over Aralim's in a quick health check, making sure she didn't exhaust herself too much. She watches as he turns and strides back to Ebriel, trying to imagine how he handled expending energy on three angels to get them back to top condition.

She couldn't properly assess the difference between how much power he had and how much Gabriel or Michael did, but the common knowledge was that the oldest two archangels were very close in their capabilities. The way their graces felt to the touch varied to the point that Aralim had a hard time figuring out the other differences; Michael was an inferno, pure searing heat the way Lucifer was cold. His grace was sharp, cutting frost when he was angry, and lessened into the feeling of freshly fallen snow settling on her limbs. 

Following their almost element like traits, Gabriel and Raphael complimented each other in a similar way. Raphael was the warm earth, welcoming and grounding, while Gabriel flitted from place to place like the wind, a gentle breeze that could rage like a hurricane when provoked. The youngest archangel clashed with Michael, blowing his flames into a blaze when they were alone - and yet him and Lucifer loved spending time together.

The second archangel was the calm to counter Gabriel's bursting energy, and they spun together like a snowstorm.

Aralim remembered a conversation she had with an older angel once, a member of the intelligence division that worked alongside Lucifer since it was first established. Before Raphael started avoiding her increasingly violent, snappish brother, they used to read and explore together. Michael and Lucifer tempered each other out until the Mark disturbed and collapsed their perfect balance and they simply raged at each other. Gabriel used to go to him for comfort, until he started running to Raphael when all he received from Lucifer was spite.

Aralim missed all of that, but the place Heaven was so long ago sounds wonderful. When they didn't have to fear death, and true violence against a sibling was unthinkable.

  
Their progress is slow and painstaking, especially with how uncertain they are with every next step, but after three hours they complete what Lucifer had dubbed the 'first stage'. Nadiel is talking about what they'll do differently next time and how they can eventually get faster as they figure out a system. 

Lucifer gently nudges Nadiel at some point and glances at the doorway, something passing between them and making Nadiel nod before she returns to her explaining while the archangel slips past them and out of the infirmary (though not unnoticed, since missing the power beacon dragging attention to him like a screeching tropical bird regardless of how much he simply lacks color, is rather impossible).

Aralim listens from where she's sitting on the bed, recovering her taxed Light until he strolls back in with a larger notepad and makes everyone look at him by default.

“I got the list.” He announces, “So I'll make a few copies and glue one on the wall.”

He turns the pad around so they can see it, trios of angels written together all over the page down, enochian letters neatly stacked together.

Aralim spots her own name near the top, and her Light jumps, painting itself in grass green and aqua. Lucifer turns around, his grace rippling for a second before he raises a copy sparkling with his signature of creation, and without any ado sticks it to the infirmary wall beside the door. “Ophaniel and Jehoel will be here as soon as you figure out Ebriel.” He says back to them.

Then he looks pensive for a moment, one of his frequent expressions along with annoyance and coldness, glancing to the hallway. Aralim thinks this is probably the point he would leave, going back to... well, she assumes Dean Winchester, the hunter and Michael's sword. But he strolls right back to them this time.

“I'll help along. There's a chance you guys can't repair the heavy damage.” He says in that light, almost careless tone that suggests he couldn't really give a damn about whether they can or cannot fix it themselves; but Aralim had learned by now that she should pay attention to what he's doing, not what he's saying. She needs to focus on his gentle grip when he practically scoops her up with his vessel's taller frame and dumps her on the bed, giving her a moment before his ice cold grace washes over her with feather-light touches, distracting her from the aching and throbbing of her broken wings.

She's so excited she could squeal, but that's about the least dignified thing she could do in front of an archangel. His amusement tickles at her mind anyway, warm and smooth like pine wood and eager like a forest stream. Aralim allows herself to giggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *As mentioned before, Lucifer actually can reach out without being part of the Host, but Aralim doesn't have a clear idea of how different archangel grace is compared to hers and does not know this.


	15. These Days Of Remembered Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean will be a bit of an obstinate idiot for a little while longer, but I promise he's not gonna stay one forever {-:
> 
> There's a dreaming scene in here that doesn't really fit that much and is more for the benefit of people who wanna know how the merging scene actually went, since I just realized that having it in my head doesn't actually mean I wrote it down.

Dean's brain is fuzzy. Pleasantly so, blurring out things he won't think about, no, not now that he's so dizzyingly removed from them.

He refuses to see what he's constantly turning to as pathetic, as a bad coping mechanism. Dean isn't wallowing, he's mourning in the only way he knows how to, the same way he's been doing for years and years. He's not sinking into his grief, he's using a crutch to stay above it.

He's just trying to deal, and getting wasted helps with that, dulling the pressure piling on him and squeezing his neck.

Castiel finds him like that, head nodding off behind the table, a half-empty bottle in one shaky hand. Dean remembers he's mad at the angel and grunts when Cas pulls the liquor away with a sigh. He needs that, or he'll go back to being a sad sack of a person. Not that he isn't one now.

“Oh, Dean.” Sighs Cas again, looking at him with so much concern. Dean doesn't know what to say, and his mouth wouldn't do what he wanted it to anyway. The angel suddenly hoists him up by the armpits and grips his arm to half drag, half help him towards the hallway, in the direction of Dean's bedroom.

Dean is too out of it to resist. “You left,” He accuses, his words slow and blurry. “Why didn' you tell me?”

Castiel turns his face away while he walks. “I thought you wouldn't approve. I'm sorry.” He says quietly.

Dean looks at him even though Castiel still won't meet his eyes. He wants to see them, though, the crescent of glowing blue that appears under the sharp hallway's lights on the edge of his irises. Cas opens the door to Dean's perpetually messy room with his free hand and Dean unceremoniously hits the bed. “Nhh... I don't want you to leave me,” he suddenly admits, completely wrecked. “Not- not like Sammy did.” 

He misses Sam. He misses him so much.

Castiel gently touches his shoulder, giving him a smile that looks faint and pained, melting into Dean's blackout. “I won't, Dean.” He assures him, truthful like a promise. Dean lets out a relieved breath and his head falls back onto the pillow. He should thank Cas, he thinks, but he's already floating away. Dean falls asleep before he can hear Cas leave the room, if the angel even leaves at all.

  
*

_He's getting up as soon as he can see again, after the white fades away and Chuck's voice isn't filling his brain anymore. The black spots in his vision stick to his retinas and his ears ring._

_His legs move through the air like sludge, heavy and slow, until suddenly he collapses beside his little brother and grips his shoulder. A bone creaks under his gentle fingers and he jerks._

_Castiel is there in front of him, even though he should be behind him still, and his horror-filled expression is taking up space in Dean's head until for a moment he can only see terrified blue eyes._

_He calls his brother's name, scared and panicked, getting him on his back, yelling at Cas to tell him what the hell happened while the angel stands there frozen._

_The noise is muted, but Dean can see. He can feel the bones under his hands when he moves his brother and he can taste the bile on his tongue, the scent of ozone in the dusty air._

_His brother's skin ripples and popples and revamps and Dean is still yelling. But there's no sound coming out of his mouth and his throat never starts hurting._

_His brother opens his eyes, and two glowing sapphires stare back at him._

*

Dean groans and covers his eyes when he wakes up, regretting his life choices the previous day like he always does immediately after he wakes up, head pounding and mouth tasting like something died in it, the last vestiges of confused dreams fading away. Then he slowly remembers why he got wasted in the first place and decides that the hangover might have been worth it after all.

The smell of coffee registers soon after the headache, and he slowly gets up, wincing at the stabbing pain. He thinks back to the previous night, and the conversation he had with Sam-Lucifer is like a gaping wound in his memory. The Cage.

Coffee sounds so good right now. Did Cas make it? Dean doesn't think he ever saw the angel attempting cooking (though he does remember Sam mentioning something about peanut butter and jelly) and he's pretty sure watching humans do it didn't magically give Cas the experience needed.

He slides over the bunker in his socks, following the smell and zombie-walking into the kitchen. Cas _is_ there, carefully manhandling a pot of the liquid Dean would like to pour down his throat.

“Dean, you woke up,” Castiel says pleasantly in lieu of a greeting. He takes a ceramic cup out of cupboard and pours the dark coffee in. “I heard it helps with a hangover.” He states and hands it to Dean, who gratefully maneuvers his fingers around Castiel's to reach the handle. 

“Thanks.” Dean says. Then he takes a sip and can't help a grimace. “But uh, let me make the coffee next time. This tastes terrible.”

Castiel looks at the cup in embarrassment. “I'm not well versed in making coffee. And I cannot check the taste either.”

Right, angels and their overdeveloped senses, probably the reason why Lucifer straight up refuses to put anything edible in his mouth, preferring to simply stare at Dean in distaste whenever he has a meal.

He feels another stab of pain and furrows his brow in an attempt to lessen it. Cas watches him with eyebrows dropping so low in concern he might get a headache of his own if he could. “Dean, why did you drink so much?” He sighs, his tone worried and chastising.

Dean shrugs and gives his best friend a pained smirk. “You could say I was drinking to Crowley. He was a bastard, but he wasn't all bad.” Cas knows there's more to it, but Dean wants to evade the topic for a little while before he drags it out of him. “Do you think Rowena will do anything about it?” He wonders, thinking back to the sassy redheaded witch.

“I didn't get the impression she cared for her son.” Cas answers slowly. “Though,” he starts, and Dean is pretty sure the angel is swiftly veering back to his drinking binge, “Sam seemed tense when he returned to Heaven yesterday. Did you discuss something that upset you?”

_Hah_. Sam was 'tense,' and Dean was a big enough mess to drink himself under the table. 

“I got to know a few things,” He eventually says, “Apparently, he had a chat with Amara a while ago.” Castiel's eyes widen in surprise. “Amara? She was here?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno where.” He looks at the cup of coffee and wraps his fingers around it. “I guess he didn't tell you either.”

Cas stays quiet. Either he doesn't know what to say or he doesn't want to admit he's just as disappointed in the person he's put more trust into than Dean. The latter takes another sip of the frankly disgusting drink, wondering briefly how someone could botch making coffee this badly.

“He's also thinking of naming himself.” Dean says.

Castiel nods. “Yes, he told me.”

Dean stares at Cas' unreadable expression with thinly veiled shock. “And, what, that doesn't... freak you out? It doesn't seem a little... disturbing?”

Cas fiddles with the edge of his trench coat. It's almost unnoticeable, the hand hidden under the table, but it's a tell Cas only picked up a few years ago and Dean's already learned every tell Cas has - and it's not many.

“It does,” he admits, “but... I think it would be good for him. He is torn between his old personalities, and having a name for himself as he is now could give him some stability.”

Dean feels a strange cocktail of things; disbelief, reluctant admiration and resentment towards the angel sitting across from him, all battling inside him in their usual fashion until he pushes them down. “How do you do that, Cas?” He asks. “How do you see them as... as _Luciel_ ,” he uses the made-up name, the one he's steadily growing to dislike, taking note of Castiel's confused blink, “And not Sam and Lucifer? I mean, I'm having trouble seeing them as one person. It's been weeks and I'm pretty sure I'm never getting over it.”

Cas doesn't need as much time to answer as Dean would expect, speaking with surety that hits Dean in the chest. “Because I can see it,” Cas answers, “I only see one person. Whenever he brushes his grace against mine, I sense _him_ ; not Sam, and not Lucifer. He's somebody different.”

_Somebody new_.

Dean doesn't know what to feel or what to say about that. He doesn't have that proof, he can't see what Cas sees, and he neither can nor _wants_ to get his brain into the mindset Cas is in.

“Cas, don't tell me you accept all this.” He pleads roughly. 

“I don't,” comes the quiet reply, “But there is nothing I can do. There's nothing to do but move on. If not that, make the best of what we are stuck with.”

Dean feels his eyes watering again, for the umpteenth time this month. “I can't do that.” He tells his friend, so quietly it borders on whispering. “I cared about Sam more than anything. There's nothing I wouldn't have done for him. I can't... _stand_ him being this.”

He shuts his eyes, but he can feel Cas' sorrowful, sympathetic eyes on him. “Cas, we talked about the Cage.”

“Oh.” Castiel mouths, still staring at Dean with the same heartbroken expression even though his blue eyes widen in shock. 

Silence lays heavy on the room like a stifling layer of cotton before Castiel speaks. “I have spent much of my time thinking,” he starts, “About how he views that... particular year Sam and Lucifer spent together. What to even do about it is... most difficult. The opposite sides of the torturer he is, along with the victim, it all clashes in ways nothing ever should.”

Dean doesn't really know how to contribute to what he's hearing, and these are thoughts he's already had, but he wants to let Cas say it all. It should be out in the open.

“We are righteous in blaming Lucifer for what he has done to Sam, but in doing so we are also blaming the victim. We are blaming Sam for being _hurt_ , and he is in pain because of it, Dean,” Cas sighs, thinking of something Dean doesn't quite understand. “The shame and the regret are always there. But what happened is no longer something that transpired between two people, and there is nothing we can do about it and be certain it is the right thing.”

Dean stares down at the lukewarm sludge left in the bottom of his cup. There is no right way.

There's no obvious, hard choice that would render someone a hero, or save everybody. It's the most fucked up morally grey area Dean has ever gotten lost in. He isn't caught between a rock and a hard place, he's just plain drowning in bad decisions, ugly situations and Sam's new discolored eyes that he hates looking at and there is no light at the end of the tunnel.

LuciferSam is the only one who knows what even happened. Every minute of their time down under, and Dean will never drag it out of him. And that person, probably playing Heaven's savior right now, is the only person who might have an idea of how to deal with this. 

_'It happened to me, too, I wasn't just doing the torturing. I don't like thinking about it.'_

Except he doesn't know how to, either, and maybe picking a new name, slapping it on and shoving all that behind him would be far easier, and LuciferSam has turned out to be someone who runs from his problems instead of taking them on; who pretends it doesn't bother him at all until the mask cracks and he leaves and puts it on again like glamorous makeup that happened to get smudged.

Maybe forgetting who he used to be is easier. And it'd be easier for Dean to do as well, if he could ever forget - because the only way he could work through it is by understanding. And Lucifer's explained it to him, making it sound slightly better than the reality, and if Dean peeks over his stubborn, obstinate denial he can see the reasons.

' _But I need you to know...'_ Lucifer needs him to understand, and Dean refuses to. Because he will not sympathize with the devil, even if the latter claims that's not what he's trying to do.

_'...that getting locked up again was my greatest fear. I'd have rather let Michael kill me.'_

Lucifer was down there alone for thousands of years, in an empty gray box, going mad for something God said Lucifer wasn't at fault for. Wronged so badly Dean couldn't wrap his head around it, screwed over six ways from Sunday and abandoned. Twisted by the Mark, and Dean knows what having it is like, how it pulls and jabs and thirsts. Who just wanted out.

Dean saw his Sammy as a hero. Someone who sacrificed everything to save the world from evil who had reasons for ending humanity Dean didn't get and Lucifer didn't adequately explain. But Lucifer sure as hell didn't see Sam as a hero. In his depraved head, Sam was the villain, the arrogant human messing with things that took root and started way before humans became what they were now, with the gall to insert himself between his older brother and Lucifer. And then put Lucifer back into his prison. The one he would die before returning to.

So the devil did what anyone with half a brain and a working fist would do, what _Dean_ would have done if he was in Lucifer's shoes. He took revenge.

Dean understands that, but reason has always gone out the window when it came to his younger brother, and he doesn't want to know Lucifer's side of the story.

He doesn't know how to love and hate SamLucifer at the same time. Doesn't know how to give his Sam the support he needs and make it clear he's never forgiving Lucifer for not staying his hand and offering mercy. For mangling Sam's soul the way he told Dean he did. Because all their conversation did for Dean is bring up more horrid mental images, every carefully spoken word given new meanings, each one worse than the last.

“What do we do?” Dean sighs. “How do we pick the right one?”

Cas is quiet for a while, probably mulling over the same moral dilemma Dean is facing. “Maybe... maybe we think about what matters most. What the priority is for us, for you especially.” 

The angel looks at him with tired eyes. “Is your wish to support Sam bigger than your need to hate Lucifer? Is your resentment too big of an obstacle to be there for the part of him that needs you?”

Dean doesn't know what to say again. His heart is clenching, tied together and slowly squeezed by a rope nobody else can see, cleaving it into pieces. Cas is still looking at him, and he seems impossibly old, far bigger and wiser than Dean, no trace of the awkward, dopey angel. “Can you forgive him? Because he _is_ Sam, and Lucifer is an integral part of his identity. If you want to love him, you'll have to accept all of him.”

Would the old Sam want that? What would he say if Dean accepted - or Chuck forbid, made _friends_ with Lucifer? How much would Sam hate him if Dean just rolled over and gave up on him, if he accepted his torturer as family? Dean shakes his head. “I can't... accept him, Cas. I can't just make peace with what happened. You know that.”

“Then can you put aside your resentment?”

Dean looks away, and his hands fall lax around the cooling ceramic. “I don't know.”

  
* * *

  
He realizes pretty soon that if he wants to visit the Archives, he'll have to suck it up and see _it._

He wants to; they were his favourite place in Heaven a long time ago. Lucifer knew every angel that ever stepped in, he read and viewed every record. He practically inhaled wonderful ideas, history and theories, inspired many siblings to follow the same values. They became his beloved flights then, taking new routes as more ways for them to operate were found.

The Archive was as close to a living being as it could be, an infinite place that could be accessed over the Host's shared mind; a simple request for Knowledge to be found, a mere thought and the chambers would find and offer the piece of information the angel needed like a simple google search. It wasn't a physical place, but it was close to it - and everything the Archive is was stored as mental fact for the Host to access. Except nobody is running that system anymore, and if he wants in he'll just have to go there.

Except. Except it's not in the human section of Heaven. It's not in the part a human could ever step in or comprehend, because humanity is bound by reality, the concept of space and light and physical matter. And the Empyrean is none of the above. Especially time is a fluid thing, more akin to a sea filled with different currents than a single linear stretch, flowing the way an archangel Wills it. Father modified the time delay between the earthly plane and their realm many times in the past, especially when the physical world was forming and to put it crudely, nothing much was happening and fast-forwarding was a must. Physical matter took its sweet time, and watching atoms spin for billions of years was boring even for the almighty, regardless of how busy he was expanding their family.

Everything is flexible in a way Earth doesn't allow, because changing anything outside the present point has consequences and doesn't just smooth itself over because reality doesn't apply.

He misses it, being in the state he was meant to be, twisting in his shifting, shimmery form. The healer he's treating blinks, feeling the pang of loss Lucifer is experiencing and not knowing what could have inspired it.

Dumah won't search for what they decided on yet - but they're making progress, a lot more progress than they did before, when their healing curve was three angels per day or two, when and if he was there. 

So Dumah will tug at his sleeve and politely inform him she's leaving quite soon, and by that point it'll still feel like a few hours regardless of how Lucifer perceives time.

Therefore, the moment he's done with Mydaiel and it doesn't look _too_ dickish, he says he'll be back in a jiffy and makes his elegant escape out the door and away from the growing number of envesseled siblings in the infirmary.

He doesn't know where he's flying, he just picks a direction and flies as fast as his six wings allow (which is mind boggling for the very minuscule human part of him that sometimes gets awed by his ability to warp reality around him. A few days after Sam became Lucifer he conjured up a hairbrush out of his own nigh-unlimited energy and briefly marveled at it, regardless of the negligible difference in focus needed to reshape an organism and snapping up a smoothie); then he suddenly slows at the edge of the next galaxy and glides for a minute, collecting himself. Technically, angels can access any part of the physical world from where they are the next realm over, but this gives him a sense of privacy, hovering in space light years away and feeling the void of space pressing on his vessel.

He turns his senses on his soul, the bright point of it situated in his chest cavity and stretching out, branching and humming inside the scars of his grace. It's kept some of its original coloration, the amber, indigo and copper streaks affecting his silvery white Light, but he never focused much on it, even when he was first exploring the new duds in that motel room. He hated the scars on his True form, and he hated to see how burned, rotted and flayed his soul became in the Cage. Perhaps he wouldn't have been that ashamed of them if any of the injuries he carried weren't caused by himself.

He can't take a deep breath here, so he simply calms the rippling of his grace. _Slowly_ , he says to himself. _I can be as slow as I want._

The hold he has on his body loosens like unscrewing the nails on a bookshelf until it dips, his grace receding away from the limbs and into a swirling mess simply existing inside.

His awareness starts morphing into the non-linear, free mindset he's supposed to possess, vision wavering as it pulls away from the eyes. His soul clings for a moment before it peels away with his grace like wet clothes off of skin and he erupts.

For a moment, they stay in that very base form, shining like a lone star, a mix of pure energy and grace, before their True form arranges itself, constructing and expanding into what it's supposed to be.

Their eyes open, the slits of them widening into almond shaped shards of sapphire, blinking. They shake for a moment, getting their bearings, endlessly long tail swishing like a snowy whip. Every feather on their serpentine form ruffles, stands on end, smooths down and lays flat again. They extend, retract the talons on the end of their long, elegant limbs, their arms, the not-paws of their legs unsheathing deadly claws.

One of their faces looks back, the almost deer-fox-like head turning around to look down their long spine, examining the dark silver feathers critically, fearfully. Their miles long wings, perfectly arranged down their back are still changed, and their copper, grey and white tones spill onto their form, flowing down narrow ribs, the back of their neck, their legs.

Then there's the scars. 

LuciferSam observes an array of them along the length of one of their fore limbs - or arms, given their long fingers, although the term only loosely describes the many joints their talons possess - smoothed over and closed, shining with soul light; silver cracks running over them like patterns on shattered and glued together porcelain, a clear mark where every single one was. _Miraculously_ , there's barely any indentation, but they remember most of them despite their episodes of insanity. A talon as white as glowing, melting platinum traces along a wide line running down the left side of their ribs where they sank their claws in and pulled, ripping away and splattering the air with grace.

Their soul, or at least the core of it, is still situated where their chest is, but it's small and hidden inside layers of dark and light. And yet it makes such a monumental difference.

_It's not as bad as I thought_ , they think. They don't look much different, and they certainly look better than they did in the Cage. 

Their twinkling eyes, like painted-on dew drops of sky blue over the smooth feathers lining their biceps turn upwards until they can see their faces from all sides. One of their central ones, the visage that has lips, feels them twitch in something between a grimace and a smile. They aren't disfigured anymore, but the scars over their cheeks and cleaving apart eyes that have been healed are clear as day.

Still. It could be far worse, and they can't help but be grateful. There is no pain, barely a pull when they stretch upwards, just because they can, twisting around in place and contorting upside down.

They can live with the reminders just fine, they decide. They don't know yet what their siblings will think, but the worry gets shoved away easily, their keen attention simply turning away from anxiety. Lucifer wishes to fly, test their wings and see where their limits are, but they should get back to Heaven, back to their family, to the Archives. There will be time to chase starlight and fly after meteorites later.

Their vessel is waiting there, secured in grace, the strangest sight to them now that it's so empty. Their eyes rake over it from every possible angle, outside and inside; the long locks of hair around Sam's sharpened face, floating in the nothingness. The vessel's eyes are half closed, freezing and glazing over with white. It's much, much smaller than them right now, and they know they'll feel tiny for a moment after they get in again.

They flex their limbs and shake their head one last time, the silvery mane of whispy feathers ruffling in a manner similar to their True vessel. Then they fold, unravel and compress into blazing white again, rushing into their vessel through its every orifice, his pores, saturating it fully again; feeling his mind snap into the human brain, his soul slotting back in place. His vision comes on again like the rising sun, grace bursting out of the quickly restoring eyeballs.

He can't see every each way anymore, and he feels like he doesn't have nearly enough limbs; not to mention only two eyes instead of thousands. These ones turn around in sockets his true form doesn't require, irises and pupils moving around instead of a solid shape that sees everything at once.

Lucifer flaps his wings and pulls himself into the astral plane before taking back to Heaven.

He doesn't know what to feel about his form now yet, so he decides to mull it over until he can reach at least a half-baked conclusion to hang onto until his self consciousness and the opinions of siblings inevitably affect it far more than he wants to be comfortable with.

He didn't have a particularly strong opinion of the changes done to his vessel - the uncaring attitude about what the puppet looks like carried over to him (and he cares more about his human physical appearance _now_ than he did before, when he never tried to alter either Nick or Castiel), and he was proud of everything being an archangel came with, so Dean was certainly more concerned about his nonexistent masculinity than Lucifer could ever pretend to be.

Those changes seemed strangely impersonal. They didn't seem _permanent_.

And now he's stopping and stilling and pulling a lower wing forward because it suddenly hits him that this is what he looks like now. 

He looked a certain way for eons. Then he destroyed and ripped apart that beauty millennia ago. And now he looks like somebody else, and his feathers are gray and brown and beige and they'll never be just white again and his scars are a permanent reminder of who he no longer is.

This is it. The chances of ever returning to two people are barely even there. Amara certainly didn't make it sound as if he would ever be split again.

He knew this before, but the weight of it suddenly presses down on him like a fifty ton boulder. He doesn't know what his final destination is. He made himself some goals that can get him through a year or a few - getting Heaven back on its legs - but otherwise, he has no idea what to do with himself.

If this is everything there is, where will he be in five years? Will Dean still hunt without him? Will he even visit the bunker? Will Heaven throw him away the second they don't need him anymore?

The leaders are definitely already asking themselves about Michael. They won't just be fine with leaving their old leader in the Cage (Lucifer isn't sure he'll be fine with doing it forever either) and they might see what he's doing as usurping the elder brother's position.

Not that he wants it all that much anymore - going back to his old responsibilities and old life. Not without Michael and Gabriel and Raphael. He can't have the good old days without his flock, he can't have happiness without family. Because he does want it; he wants to be a big brother again, he wants to go to Michael for preening when he crashes after a failed somersault, he wants to sit down and read a book with Raphael so they can theorize about it later, wants to see Gabriel.

He's wanted it more than anything for a very long time. He's begged for it. He prayed his nonexistent heart out until he sank into bitterness and persuaded himself he'll never get it back because he blew it. It was easier to blame humanity.

He doesn't know whether Michael would ever want that as well - he hid his emotions behind a mask of loyalty and stony will, unmoving in his persuasion that carrying through with the apocalypse would make Father proud, because clearly they were doing something wrong and he left out of sheer disappointment of their failure. But even if he did, Michael would never forgive him for killing Gabriel. And he would demand recompense for Raphael's death and smite Castiel out of existence.

He doesn't want Michael to be as broken as he was anymore, because just as he is sick of his own bitterness and unwavering rage, he's sick of his persistent need for vengeance. Not that he'll stop wanting it, because he wants recompense for every year he spent sitting alone in prison, but he's _tired_. 

He's thinking - he thinks too much, it's all he does when he's not in Heaven or with Dean, and it's done him as much damage as it has helped him settle. He comes to conclusions that drive spikes into his mind and he hammers them down and sticks to them, and he feels his mind changing over so many things, his opinions and choices sliding up and down on a scale of identity. 

His feelings on Michael, his thoughts regarding Dean, the Host, his family. It's like they aren't done with him yet, because his mind is still wobbly and still solidifying. It scares him, and he realizes whatever this fusion thing was wasn't just a one-hitter, it's a process, and even though the worst bump is over he barely has an idea of who he is yet. Nobody with a clear picture of who they are has two names and switches between them while not ever realizing he's doing it, has two identities and can't decide who he is half the time. 

He's doing it right now. Sam was excited, already getting impatient about leaving his vessel again and really taking his time to explore everything he is now, take his mind off things. And now he's thought himself into a pit of despair over what happened, over his identity crisis and Michael, and it's nobody's fault but his because he's literally floating in the astral plane, watching stars, all alone.

Everything in their lives is going round and round his mashed together soul and grace and it's ruining him and Dean and Cas, even though the Host is brighter, siblings are fluttering in the hallways with awed expressions, Nadiel smiles at him like they're friends and they are, and Jehoel is looking at him with genuine respect. He's not stupid, he can see how his-Sam's family is falling apart; Castiel trying to find solace in working and Dean drowning his depression in a bottle while leaving hunting because he refuses to do it without his Sam (LuciferSam doesn't know whether it'd be better if Dean threw himself into danger instead of this stagnant defeat).

He's filled with more uncertainty than rage over his situation these days, and after every thinking session he feels like fucking crying. Lucifer doesn't know what he needs to bury all this, but it feels like he can't vent his emotions away, like he can never get enough sleep. Maybe he needs closure, maybe he needs reason. A hundred heartfelt apologies couldn't fix his issues.

He suddenly wishes he could have all the answers, so that he wouldn't feel lost anymore, so that he'd know whether there's even a point to all this, whether what has been done to him has a purpose even if that purpose is putting together Heaven or punishing him some more. Hell, even if Dad just wanted to try something new and see how it would turn out, because there isn't much one can do with an angel as damaged as him but too powerful to waste. Maybe he's watching him spin in circles and writing about how his mind roils and how messy his breakdowns are. He just wants to understand.

Lucifer's worked himself into a wallowing, quiet state by the time he lands in a white hallway, and he feels like he wants to curl up on his bed and do absolutely nothing. He feels so pitiful when it dawns on him, and he intakes a sharp breath through his nose, flipping his hair back and away from his face. If he can make himself this sad, he can make himself happier too.

So he tries, forcing his thoughts to revolve around how good he feels now that he's not that damaged, how he's about to visit his favourite place in Heaven, how amazing and painful the nostalgia is going to be. He clings to anything good he can think of like a mantra, and it's silly but it's in his head and it's not like anyone can judge him for doing it. It works enough for the relaxed expression he plasters on his face to be somewhat genuine. 

The hallways aren't empty anymore, not for many turns around the infirmary. The realm accommodates the numbers with ease, the shifting walls simply moving further apart, benches slotting against walls. Angels litter the place, groups and pairs occupying the space and chatting like they haven't done in Father knows how long. The majority aren't healed, but every one that has been or has naked wings still incapable of flight has them out in the open.

The atmosphere is vastly different than it was when he first arrived, warmth and conversation having replaced the sterile, echoing emptiness. The lights don't emit stark, cold light, but fill it with the same light as their vibrant grace. Sam hears laughter, excitement, sees gentle fingers carding through newly grown coverts; catches the sight of excited flapping from an angel with half feathered, fern green wings.

It's the most positive sight he's seen in years. He pushes away his negativity as much as he can and appreciates it, soaking in the happiness permeating the air and drinking in the sight of what is sure to get better. He tucks his own pairs of wings as close as he can and walks through to the infirmary. Heads turn when he passes, but most of his siblings are too preoccupied to feel the obligatory fear. He gets looks of nervousness, but there's no hostility he's grown used to; he receives soft tones of lilac, aqua and marigold Light that herald gratitude and admiration.

Sam doesn't know what to feel, and maybe by now he's too overwhelmed by all the emotions he's been pushing around and jumping between, but he can't tell whether he's staring in dopey, undignified shyness or grinning like an idiot as high as a kite.

He hasn't felt this accepted for millennia and a month, and he's not even all that welcome. 

Nadiel grins at him when he steps into the infirmary again, far later than he meant to, but she doesn't stop her work. His eyes search out Dumah, her grace looking like a babbling brook with how many conversations she's trying to keep up with at the same time. The Host's shared mind is a flurry of questions and exclamations he can sense and hear as musical white noise, but he imagines the halls are even louder for everyone else, even with how many are talking out loud.

She probably won't find time to slip away just yet, not with how busy she is, Sam realizes. Regardless of her talent, the angels that came after the first four weren't made to be able to multitask to their extent. He knows what his limits used to be, and he was fully capable of presiding over multiple meetings at once and leading different conversations - though his attention span drastically degraded over the centuries and his mentioned abilities stagnated without any use, so he's not sure how much of his talents would be lost if he ever connected with the Host again. Or if they could ever be recovered.

Sam heads over to the list, not bothering to push past the siblings in front of it since he can see it just fine over everyone - one perk of being as tall as he is; the genetics that allowed him to spring up like a weed partially his fault. He can remember that conversation, when Father asked them about preferences regarding their true vessels, so that they would be satisfied with them. Michael went first, humble in his simplistic request that his vessel be a male, and perhaps on the more presentable side (pretty or handsome, in pretentious angel speak), while Lucifer wasn't taking the discussion all that seriously, given that it happened only a century before he fell, and said he'd be perfectly happy if his vessel was bigger than Michael's.

He should have known Father actually taking note and making him almost six and a half feet tall and therefore creating a teenage life of embarrassment would be just like him.

Not that he's complaining anymore, because looking over a room while he's speaking is much easier if he can see everybody, and it admittedly feels correct that lesser angels should have to look up at him even in a vessel.

He finds the next angel to heal, needing something new to distract him before his thoughts could return to his brother. It's been two days of space by now, and it's slowly becoming easier to force his focus away from the hunter and helping siblings instead, taking comfort in the fact that at least someone is getting something good out of all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who says angel eyes need to be actual eyeballs? Since they have thousands of them, why can't they just be these almond shaped starlike eyes that don't need eye sockets, but give the impression of being painted on like colorful filled in tattoos? 
> 
> Also, Lucifer is intentionally not thinking about Dean's conversation. His true form didn't actually cheer him up that much - although he is vain in that 'I was once the prettiest thing in the cosmos' way.


	16. Whose Name You Stand For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long, event-busy chapter ahead!

Dean shaves, packs his sturdy duffel bag and grabs Baby's keys along with Sam's laptop and spare cash. Because he refuses to wallow and sit still any longer, he refuses the pity and concern he's getting from Castiel's looks because everyone is moving forward and working while Dean lags behind, a lost case.

He's a Winchester, dammit. Winchesters don't give up, they plow through and keep fighting. Somebody has to keep up that reputation, and Dean is the only one left available for the job.

Dean doesn't have a plan, exactly, and he doesn't have a case to work yet - Sam was the one with a knack for finding them, nerding his way through newspapers and internet news while Dean cleaned weapons and listened, because that's how he had been raised and as far as he was concerned it was all he was good for, and there was no Sam to tell him otherwise anymore.

That's how he ends up renting a room in a cheap motel, a two hour drive from the bunker, fully intent on finding the nearest monster and breathing something other than the smell of stale coffee and old books.

There's determination in his actions, a stubbornness he draws from some hidden reserves, Chuck knows where from. He _needs_ something to do, even if he just has to make himself feel a little less useless while Sam literally reorganises Heaven and Castiel follows him up into the sky on brand new wings. So maybe it's actual fucking Fate that causes a case to find Dean, and not the other way around. 

Or rather a case to barrel into him from the side while he's walking back to his room after a quick look into the morgue, which sounds exactly like something the blond shrew would do.

He - Dean catches a glimpse of a bearded face before he slams onto the ground in a remote alleyway - knocks him right over with supernatural strength, and Dean rolls on the ground to jump into a defensive stance and pull out his knife.

The guy has one too, a wicked looking blade gripped tightly in his right hand, ready to slash and deal damage. He grins at Dean, and his eyes flick black. “Heya there, Winchester.” _Great. Just fan-frickin-tastic._

Dean snarls at the demon, a half smirk twisting at his lips, humorless. “Hey there, black-eyed bitch.” He takes a few steps back, trying to get some distance and room from the demon and hopefully distract him long enough to get one over him. “What's up?” He pipes, eyes flashing. “Decided to get a shot at the big leagues downstairs and take out a Winchester?”

The demon shrugs and takes a step forward. Dean doesn't know whether the street is a dead end, and he doesn't want to find out. “Nothing personal,” The demon says leisurely, “Just working a minor job.”

Dean tries to think fast. “A job, huh? Just following orders?”

The demon doesn't have any plans that include dilly-dallying around, though, and strikes forward with two quick steps and a knife dangerously close to Dean's throat. The hunter moves out of the way, sideways in the narrow alley, and bumps his shoulder against a dumpster, then scrambles forward and around the demon so that their positions are reversed. He was right, it was a blind street.

“So who you working a job for?” He says, and the angry demon takes a threatening step forward. This is a difficult one, since Dean is used to dealing with dumb demons who lost most of their capacity for strategizing to the torture. “Dude, I just wanna know who wants me dead.” Dean shrugs like he isn't calculating every way this fight could end.

The guy considers him through beetle eyes. Maybe not that smart, then. “A new boss is rising to the top,” He tells him, all smug about it, “And he figured he might send a guy to take out those pesky brats that keep messing shit up for us.”

Oh. Lucifer mentioned something about anarchy and potential leaders, but that was... maybe a week ago. It hasn't been that long, has it? Dean's grasp on time is getting shapeless. The demon decides that was the extent of whatever courtesy telling Dean who got him killed was and jumps at him.

Dean lifts both his arms up while he moves back, and the knife nicks him on his left arm. He hits the guy's dominant hand away with his own, but the demon holds onto the blade while a human's would have flown right into the wall. It doesn't help him though - Dean lets out his quiet battle groan from behind his teeth, one reserved for public places, and drives his demon killing knife up between the demon's ribs.

The fight ends almost as soon as it started, as most of them do when they're really trying to kill each other. The demon yells out while he flashes orange-red, dying, and falls down dead. Dean looks frantically behind him, watching if anybody heard it.

There's no prints, Dean isn't covered in blood other than the sluggishly bleeding cut on his arm that he can cover up, and the sun will only set in a few hours. He looks down at the now empty meat suit, giving the middle aged man a silent apology, and bails.

He keeps his hands in his jacket pockets, putting on the mask of day to day indifference, just another guy going about his business and storing his guilt in a lead box of sins he slides into a drawer in his brain. He focuses on the information he got instead.

So there's a chap trying to be the new king of hell, and he sent a lackey to eliminate a threat before it could become a proper danger to them, though the demon made it sound like a side task, not the replacement-Crowley's life goal.

Dean considers it on his way back. Lucifer would want to know about it; he probably should given that everything points to him just straight up taking over Heaven sooner or later. But Dean is too hurt to call him yet, too pissed off - and he knows he wouldn't have prayed even if that demon managed to wound him far worse than the throbbing cut on his arm. It's not in the same place as the one he got in the vampire fight a good while back, and Lucifer healed that one before Dean even acknowledged the possibility; he knows Sam would come the moment Dean needed him. Most likely.

He decides he'll tell Cas. The angel hadn't spoken much to him since the last conversation they had, and Dean suspected Cas was upset with him, or something pertaining to Dean's answer. Maybe even over what Dean screamed at him in an earlier argument, when he accused him of exploiting the situation and being fine with losing Sam, and Dean never apologised for that. They didn't even talk about it. And Dean feels guilty, because he knows Cas won't hold a grudge against him, even though he was a complete asshole - and because he doesn't have the heart to bring that up again.

Dean bandages up the cut in his motel bathroom, grateful he won't need to stitch it up himself. He doesn't want an angel to heal it. It'd make him feel like he's dependent, like he's a weak fragile mortal who needs assistance because he keeps getting hurt. 

Only when that's done, he sits down and clasps his hands together to pray to Castiel. “Hey, Cas,” he starts, “Just tuning in to give you some news. I ganked a demon who said there's a new king on the throne. I don't know anything else, but I figured you guys should know. Uh, amen.”

He stills, waiting to hear a flutter of invisible wings and see a familiar trench coat, but the motel room stays silent. His prayer didn't exactly require the angel to come, but he feels a stab of painful disappointment.

He sighs, gets up and picks up Sam's laptop to continue his search for a case. Dean opens up a new tab and suddenly he does hear the wings, and Cas makes a few steps towards him over the room. “Dean. I had to excuse myself before I could disappear.” He says in an apologetic tone. Dean is just grateful he came.

Cas looks worried. “Did a demon attack you?”

“Yeah, but I'm fine.” Dean brushes that off before he could get more unwanted concern. “But the dude was working on orders. I didn't get much, but apparently Hell has a new king wannabe.”

The angel's eyebrows lower in thought. “We should know who it is. Sam has been making plans on getting Hell back to its former level of power for a while, and that includes dealing with whomever is in charge.”

Dean feels a twinge of annoyance when the conversation immediately loops to Lucifer again. He wants something to be about anything other than him _for once._

“Sure.” Dean grumbles. “You go tell him, I'm gonna work a case. It's about time I started again.”

Cas stares at him with his most neutral-concerned expression, but something in Dean's gets the message across. Dean needs space. “Alright, Dean.” He nods, mouth twisting into a small frown. “Call if you need any assistance.”

And he's gone in another flutter, leaving Dean alone again, flying back to his new job occupation, and Dean is both relieved and awfully, painfully lonely. He feels abandoned, and he can't shake the notion that this isn't solely Lucifer's fault for butting into their life and pulling away Cas. The angel would certainly stay if Dean asked, if he opened up and told him he needs company, a friend, somebody to stick with so he isn't all by himself. But Cas chose this, he went to Heaven by himself, without telling Dean. And he doesn't want to take that away, take the family he's apparently getting accepted into again, because there's just one of him and so many of them.

And he has a horrible suspicion that Lucifer-Sam prefers being in Heaven than with him. That he doesn't yearn for his approval the way he used to, something Dean didn't know he valued that much until it started slipping away, and he's more content among beings he tolerates, even cares about; complex, immortal beings Dean isn't and wouldn't want to be either. 

He opens up the laptop. Dean needs a hunt.

  
* * *

  
If Sam forgets his background anxiety and the general stress, he can genuinely grin at the way things are going. Every available healer took their place in the main infirmary, which expanded even further than before, a great, wide room with high ceilings - spacious like all of Heaven used to be, and probably even the human part before they lost their wings.

Going to the Archives was as hard as he expected; there were no angels flitting around, no Radueriel to greet him when he flew in, or the pale winged Pravuil and his team who kept the records in top condition and carried in new ones. Dumah flew behind him, staring at Lucifer with wide sapphire eyes, a shade similar to his own; along with Sadriel, a relatively young intelligence angel who was busy alternating between looking at the records in delight and staring at Lucifer with unabashed interest. They flew close beside Dumah, their newly healed wings struggling to keep them level.

They were both small compared to him, even when he kept himself as compressed together as possible. Luckily the concept of size and space was a loose thing there, and their forms flutter in the light of his wings.

 _'Ds geh gil dorpha lap?'_ (What are we searching for?) Sadriel asks again and turns one of their faces straight down while the azure eyes on their spine roll upwards at Lucifer. Their true voice has the strangest intonation, as if they never really grew out of the shrill note of an eyas. 

_'Canal, corsi balit gephna...'_ (warriors, who can also be teachers...) Dumah flutes back to them in an exasperated answer, quiet as if it'd be rude to disrupt the newfound silence of this place. 

' _Noib_ ,' (yes), interrupts Sadriel, ' _Ol omax, cirp,'_ (I know, but,) they ruffle their speckled tawny feathers and blink. ' _Bagle ge dorpha ala ollor ili._ ' (Why not search for them in the halls of man first.) Their words swoop like a question, confused and curious.

Lucifer drops lower and curls their limbs closer so that they don't disturb their siblings' flight. The Archives are a giant labyrinth around them, knowledge stored as grace like curtains of blue light, drapes of walls and shelves forming into endless passages; flowing up until they disappear into celestial light and allowing them to fly freely with nothing but empty space beneath them. It's beautiful and the archangel _missed_ it. They want to pull down every record and see it, but they won't do that, not yet. 

' _Baglen_ ,' they sing in amusement, startling the little angel. ' _Ol niis kures. Od t i lephe.'_ (Because; I wished to come here. And it's efficient.)

Lucifer beats their wings faster then, launching themself up into the ether, swerving behind the pillars of knowledge, drinking in the sights with their 360° vision. The tips of their wings almost brush the precarious shapes of light before they go even higher, releasing a chorus of colourful laughter, tinkling bells and piccolo, pitter patter of rain and rustling of autumn leaves.

Sadriel whistles behind them, fluttering as fast as their wings allow while Dumah follows in the distance. They imitate the giddy laugh and spin, unruly coverts rippling like an ocean wave, settling into easy flying under the lowest pair of the archangel's wings. Sam just grins, too excited to mind the little childish angel and letting them catch a rest in the current their wings provide.

They backbeat and glide as they come into view of a large passage - beyond monumental, given their size and the fact that Lucifer could fly alongside three other archangels and still not touch the sides. It's an unfamiliar part, and the further he flies the more the records start to resemble books; at least in the way they are organized. Humanity's part of the Archives stretches insanely far, splitting into different chambers and viewing places of saved and observed memories.

Sam flies to one of the _Faorgt iadnah_ , a larger platform with a white pillar rising up and splitting into the Archives at the top like branches of a tree.

They land, wings briefly flapping to catch their balance before they run-leap towards what could loosely be referred to as searching equipment, even if their musical tongue doesn't have the sound for it.

Sam knows what they're searching for, and they could have found it already if they were part of the Union of Minds, but they don't worry. This is their domain, and here, they're in their element, no matter how unfamiliar the Words written. Sadriel curls nearby, observing with wide open eyes as Lucifer feeds their Light into the system and their mind explodes across the Archives.

They fumble against the information before catching their footing and delving into what they want to find, pulling together any soul with the properties they seek, and the humans' rooms move, a quick shift in the lower regions of Heaven. Dumah hums nearby, taking in the shifted individual heavens with approving interest.

Lucifer extracts themself back out of the records soon, their many hands slipping off the pillar, and Dumah chirps a quick message to someone, likely Jehoel. The archangel smiles a satisfied grin and feels a scar pulling one corner of their mouth further than the other. It must look lopsided, but they don't let it ruin what they have now, in this wonderful space. There's nothing here to make them unhappy, no Dean, no immediate trouble, just two siblings and tons of knowledge. 

They get a quick start and jump off the platform back into space and light, resigning to the fact that they should get back to their vessel and listening to Sadriel's joyous melody while they flip in the air to get as much out of this short moment in their true form as they can. Lucifer glances back as Dumah does the exact same thing and chortles to themself.

*

They meet up with Jehoel in a larger hallway interception while he speaks to a gathering of angels about their training and assigns two of the soldiers formerly stationed on Earth to rifle through the rooms and talk to any candidates they deem acceptable. His head turns when he senses them coming and greets them.

“I've sent out a Host-wide announcement about the vessel training,” He informs Lucifer. “We're going to take it slowly, just until we have enough siblings in top condition. There's no point in only training five angels at once.”

Lucifer nods. “Makes sense. I'll check who the tutors are when you pick them.”

The seraph looks up at him with questioning brown eyes. “Will you partake in any of the training? As I understand, you have a great deal of experience yourself.”

Sam shrugs, but he feels a rush of pride in the fact that yes, he can fight hand to hand better than any other angel - if he'd practice with his slightly different build. He hasn't actually tried yet, since there's no need for an archangel to fight that way. “I might drop by and give tips, but I doubt I can train someone too scared to hit me properly. It would defeat the point of pushing them.”

Jehoel's eyes glimmer, his sense of humor making an appearance Sam hadn't expected. “If I may,” He starts, trying to avoid offending him. “There's a good chance the opposite might happen. We have some feisty soldiers.”

Sam snorts, and the tense line of Jehoel's shoulders relaxes again. “I bet grudges could be settled like that. I've got a whole ledger of those up here.”

Jehoel's mouth parts like he isn't sure whether he means taking revenge himself or letting the younger angels vent their anger on him. Lucifer is in a good mood, but given his reputation that doesn't strictly eliminate the first option. Before he could say something, he feels Castiel's grace enter Heaven close by, mulling over something and moving with intent. A few moments later the seraph walks through the door with his trench coat lifting behind him at his quick gate. 

“Brothers.” He greets, avoiding naming Lucifer again. Jehoel simply nods, skeptical about Castiel's presence. “I have news,” He addresses Sam, “There's a new king of hell. He put out a hit on the Winchesters.”

Sam's eye twitches, his thoughts honing in on Dean in seconds, stretching towards Earth already before Castiel's Voice stops him, prickling against his grace. ' _He's alright! But... you should leave him alone for a while longer.'_ He relays awkwardly, and Sam can read between the lines. Dean doesn't want to see him. 

He stifles his sigh and brushes away the upsetting feelings he really doesn't need right now. “Already,” He hums, “Interesting. I should see who it is and meet up. There's a few things I wanna say to whatever demon was daring enough.”

Jehoel's eyes slide to him, and a few present angels are clearly listening in. “If you do meet,” The older seraph says, “You should be accompanied by one of us. It will send a different message if it's only you.”

Lucifer grins. “Sure thing. I need to find out who it is first, but I'll be back asap.”

Jehoel agrees with only slight confusion and Sam can't get out of there fast enough, away from Castiel who knows what he talked about with Dean last they saw each other, and apparently knows exactly how much Dean wants him out of his life. He has to drown himself in what he's doing away from his brother, in siblings and stupid demons. _It's a good coping method,_ he thinks _, to be working._

Castiel, of course, rushes after him. “Sam? Wait for me. We need to talk about it.” Sam sighs and turns around, peeved. “No, we don't. What I need to do is find the black fart that thinks it can be royalty.”

The seraph shakes his head and steps closer, but Sam lays a hand on his chest and gently pushes him away. “I need you to leave me alone.” He makes it sound as honest and heartfelt as he can, because he doesn't want to yell at the seraph to make him go do whatever he's doing with his life these days.

He drops down from Heaven and catches himself on his wings, gliding towards Earth again. A quick glance back tells him Castiel didn't attempt to follow him, so he decides to slow down and soar a few miles above a city somewhere in America. 

He stills his breath and focuses on finding the closest demon, stretches his vision and seeks out a relatively unmoving black swirl of smoke, a dark spot in the colorful tapestry of souls beneath him. Smiling, he dives into a rabbit's stoop towards it, honing in on the inky soul and blinking when it turns out to be an old cellar, adorned with badly drawn religious symbols and damp objects glistening with water that was probably meant to be holy.

He floats just outside of it where the wall would be on the terrestrial plane, amused by the scene he's privy to. The demon he senses is strapped to a cot with ropes that certainly can't hold him, cooped up in a teenage boy while two would-be exorcists are trying to command him to leave while intermittently spraying him with water. The young demon, judging by the twisted soul, is having the time of his week putting on a show for the two idiots.

Lucifer snorts and edges closer to the physical world by the door frame, catching the exact moment the demon senses him and freezes, stabbing his beady eyes into the corner right before he melts into the room with a silent whoosh of misplaced air. The two priests don't stop chanting until Lucifer steps inside and towards the bed, their loud words tapering off when they see him.

The demon curses, his wide eyes raking over faint silhouettes of six wings he can see, courtesy of existing as an incorporeal soul. The middle aged priests exclaims, “Who are you?! How did you get in here!” Waving around his bowl of water. Lucifer pays him no mind, simply taking a few steps closer to the bound demon. He jerks back, the rope straining, and he can see the smoke coiling before rushing up to haul ass in a vain attempt to escape a smiting. Lucifer stuffs him inside and keeps him there with a quick thought.

The demon keeps jerking away even though it's futile, growing more terrified now that he's sure he isn't making it out alive. “Wait! Don't kill me yet!” He yells out, and suddenly it clicks to the archangel that the demon has no idea who he's looking at other than an angel, and it isn't one of those new mindset ones who think angels are no longer a danger. He _huhs_ to himself. This could turn out interesting.

Lucifer stops at the cot, briefly looks around and then pulls over a wooden chair to sit on it. The demon goes bug-eyed, and the 'exorcists' look like they're about to make a huge annoyance of themselves. He smirks down at the demon, none too nicely. “Heya. Having some fun?”

The hellspawn stutters. “I was just screwing around, yeah, I can be out in a jiffy, or- or I can be useful,” He jerks again. “You don't have to smite me or anything-”

“Could you,” Lucifer interrupts, “shut up? I'm here on official business and am kind of in a hurry.” 

The two humans are starting to babble, and one of them connects some of the dots and mentions angels, and they're deflating any good humor he had when he came in like a loose balloon. He turns his head and glares. “If you two won't shut up, piss off.” It'd be easier to just kill them, but Dean wouldn't approve. Dean would call him a murderer and tell him how they don't kill humans. “I'm not here to deal with you.” 

He turns back to the demon cringing below him. “I'm gonna need you to answer some questions, and I'm not in the mood to waste time. Now,” he leans closer. “Who is the new king of hell? I know you hear things through the grapevine. Someone's rising to the top.” Heaven really should get back their informants, mainly ones at the gates. He stores the thought away for later.

The demon hesitates, weighing his options, trying to decide whether a quick death is better than a dragged out one. “He's... he's a prince of hell. The y-youngest one.”

Lucifer scrunches his face up. “Ashmedai?”

The demon blinks. “Uh, he goes by Asmodeus.”

The archangel allows himself a moment to feel the absolute disdain for the weak runt of the quartet he made. _Asmodeus_ , as if tweaking his name and calling himself a god to everyone's faces could change the fact that all he is is a fallen, twisted cherub.

“Will you... let me go now?” The demon pipes, staring at his scowl. Lucifer gives him a flat look, then snorts. He extends his hand to the demon's forehead, intent on smiting him, when he looks at the teenager's face again. He can see the young soul under the thick black smoke, a light green, writhing thing screaming its thoughts out. He sighs and stills his hand, looking at the demon's borrowed face. “You wouldn't know where to find 'Asmodeus', would you?”

The demon stutters, but at his pointed look he doesn't start unneeded bullshit. “Last I-I heard he was in Hell. I mean, maybe he'll come to earth soon, if he wants-”

“'Kay, thanks.” Lucifer interrupts him and promptly lays a hand on his chest, reaches to the black smoke and squeezes, pouring his Light over the twisted soul like burning acid. The demon uses the boy's- _Peter's_ \- vocal cords for one last cut off scream before the last of his essence wastes away. 

Peter falls unconscious, the exhaustion and the pain of the demon's death catching up to him. Lucifer doesn't want to consider him, the first human he's saved in a good while, the very first from some perspectives, because Peter's future is an unremarkable fate that will only contribute to humanity's downfall and the slow destruction of Earth. And it's emo, and seems almost weak now, the way he looks down on him, but Lucifer knows Peter will most likely grow up to be just another overweight guy sitting behind a desk, full of disappointment and boredom, coming back home to kids that will grow up to be exactly like him. It seems like mercy, to simply kill him right now, so he can die young and mostly happy, with the positive outlook he has on life, and will never contaminate the gene pool with his overeager teenage libido.

Lucifer sighs, stands up without a care to the marks the chair leaves on the floor, and walks to the door. The two priests or whatever are still there, looking at him in something like stumped, fearful awe, quiet and pressed against the wall. “The kid'll be fine,” He mutters when he passes them. Then he stops, considers and points to the bowl the exorcist left on the table. “And that's not holy water.”

He takes one step away, snaps his wings open and launches himself back into the astral plane, a few quick wing beats taking him right through the veil and slamming through the barrier to Heaven. Not that he's actually in a hurry, he's just _thoughtful_.

The seraph commander he searches for is now speaking to two high ranked angels, and Lucifer immediately recognizes them as Sarathiel and Araqiel, two other seraphim he noticed on the list Dumah gave him. It's still a surprise to see them, and he speeds up his pace.

Sarathiel wears a tall female vessel with jet black hair and olive skin, and she steps respectfully towards him to greet him. She was the seraph of discipline when she worked under Michael and him, and oversaw training, so her involvement was a given from the start. Lucifer exchanges pleasantries with her, but keeps an eye on Araqiel.

The older seraph only nods, his lips in a tight line. He was one of the seraphim training under Lucifer, and agreed to follow him in the rebellion; but he then realized the entire thing was not only futile, but his commanding archangel wasn't even in his right mind after witnessing the twisting of another angel - Azazel, in fact. He joined Michael's side before the fighting broke out and wasn't punished, but his reputation was blemished both among siblings and among humans.

Lucifer gives him a calm look back, free of hostility, and hopes Araqiel will understand the message; though speaking to him later would be better. For now, he quickly addresses Jehoel. “The new king is Ashmedai,” he announces, noticing the flinch from Araqiel. It makes him feel ashamed for what he had done, and he can't meet the seraph's eyes when he continues. “Though he goes by Asmodeus these days. He was last in Hell.”

The corners of Jehoel's mouth turn downwards. The new king's identity would likely spread rumours like wildfire, dredging up memories Lucifer didn't want everyone thinking about. Ashmedai wasn't exactly a well liked cherub, but nobody would point that out; It'd be about Lucifer and how he turned an angel into something unholy.

“I'm going to speak to him.” Lucifer starts again before Jehoel can say anything, “We're changing the regime, and we don't need him making any trouble, especially with the influence he's bound to have. Even if he's weak for a prince, he's still stronger than a normal demon.”

Jehoel nods. “Will you be taking a battalion?”

The archangel can hear the question between the lines. _Will you be going in the name of Heaven?_ Lucifer nods. “It would be best. Any suggestions?”

“I'm the current head seraph, so I should go. I can suggest two brothers to come as well.” Jehoel answers, satisfied and getting into the topic now that he's no longer on shaky ground.

“Sure, just make sure it's somebody who can fight. I'm planning on making sure no-one gets a blade near your graces, but it's always good to be cautious.”

“Agreed,” Jehoel says, “When shall we take off? We aren't in any hurry, and it's best to be prepared.”

Sam shrugs, realizing quickly that he's trying to fit this into his nonexistent schedule while planning when he's gonna see Dean next. The duality of it suddenly slaps at him, and he centers himself. “We could take a while longer, get more healing done. Asmodeus most likely hasn't been on the rise long. I want to see where we are with fighting skills.”

They finish up and Jehoel leaves, copper grace a flurry of planning and systematic organizing that reminds him of Dumah. Sarathiel and Araqiel already start walking off with him, his sister striking up a conversation, but Lucifer quickly grabs Araqiel by the shoulder, startling him. He doesn't even know what he's doing, but he feels like he has to. “Hey, listen,” He starts awkwardly, and the seraph is glancing at his siblings like he's sure he's about to die and is handling it with dignity. “I just wanted to say...”

He fumbles for a moment, and Araqiel straightens up, wary and somewhat confused at Lucifer's lack of aggressiveness. “About what happened back then. During the Fall.” Lucifer says, and Araqiel's grace goes bleak and panicky. “You should know that I don't blame you. You did the right thing.”

Araqiel stills. “I don't understand. You called it- well, you called it betrayal.”

Lucifer shrugs, hiding how much he feels like his stomach is knotting up. “I know. I was an ass, and, well. I'm glad now, that you sided with Michael. I wouldn't have wanted you to fall.”

His younger brother looks him in the eyes now, and regardless of how hard it is or how awkward, Sam looks back at him, trying to convey his honesty. Araqiel finds whatever he was looking for and gives him a small, lopsided smile. “So, uh, no hard feelings?”

The archangel grins at him. “Nope, we're good.” The seraph smiles more confidently now, and says a quick goodbye to rush after his siblings, his fear letting up to be replaced with... relief? Comfort? Lucifer isn't sure, but he likes the warmth of it, the cream coloured streaks against Araqiel's grace. He thinks of Dean again, letting himself debate whether he should go check on him or just go help Nadiel's team. Castiel would have checked, he decides. Dean is fine, and he wants privacy, not creepy archangels snooping on him where he can't see.

He starts in the direction of Nadiel's familiar grace glowing not too far off, blinking at him from a small sea of younger siblings.

It will give him time to think while he works. He'll be going to hell soon, the place where he was caged, even though they won't be going anywhere near the box. Nowhere near Michael either, and the oldest archangel won't know he's there either - he can't sense anything at all, unless he learned to exploit the damage Amara's jailbreak caused. 

He feels a pang of regret thinking about Michael, knowing how terrible the Cage is. He doesn't want Michael to share his fate, even though he's angry and bitter over his brother choosing to side with Dad. He doesn't want to leave Michael in there forever. He sighs, pushing away heavy decisions and focusing on siblings that are here now.

  
*

He zips up his jacket like some shoddy, modern day armor and looks over to Jehoel, who is giving the last of directions to their siblings. To his surprise, Araqiel decided to come with, along with Eremiel and Ebriel, the two high Cherubim guards. The last day and a half was spent organizing and planning, and Sam needs to check his 'tiredness' levels just to make sure he's well rested enough to do this. He checks over the list in his head, the introduction thay decided on and what they would demand from Asmodeus on the high chance he was there immediately. 

Most of their success hedges on Lucifer's power, really. What they want to do is restore the old order: demons in hell, with nobody getting aspirations for the apocalypse or the fall of Heaven, because that's something that won't just end badly; Heaven can't afford any more fighting, and they need to wriggle out of the bind they're in. Whoever is on the throne needs to get with their program and be content with ruling Hell without sniffing at Earth too closely, giving Heaven information on what they're doing without complaining about the thumb they're kept under.

They're doing this as a prevention tactic, stopping rebellions and giving a warning before they start stuffing Hell back into its box, and Lucifer has personal plans about a zealous extermination on Earth that the infernal dimension will not like. If this doesn't work, they won't lose anything except time.

After a quick thought, he manifests a hair band and ties his hair back into a sloppy ponytail, just so that it won't get blown into his face or obstruct his currently human-eye-limited vision when they burst through Hell's gates. It exposes his ears, which makes him feel weirdly naked. Jehoel joins him with his trademark air of responsible professionalism. “We're all set. All should go well as long as we stick to the plan, and we have two healed soldiers at the ready if something goes wrong.”

Lucifer smirks self-importantly. “Slim chance. No expedition with an archangel on it has ever failed, unless you've been getting sloppy while I was gone.”

Jehoel blinks, his face starting to scrunch up in a frown.

“But being prepared is a smart idea, yeah.” Lucifer amends. He turns around and twitches his wings. “Let's go.”

They take flight, leaving Heaven in seconds; except instead of dropping to the terrestrial plane as he's done until now, they move through the Veil down, using it as a middle stop between the four dimensions and their adjacent offices. They pass through the lowest levels of Heaven's outer edges, startling a few reapers in their bony, whisp winged forms as they guard the doors to Death's realm and observe the flow of souls, drifting to their designated afterlife.

He can hear Jehoel's feathers ruffling as he keeps up easily, catching drafts that wind through the empty black space from different directions. They catch the one metaphorically smelling like brimstone.

They reach the Gates soon enough, assuming a loose V formation to fly through the barrier, easily slipping into the blazing realm from outside and bracing for a difficult flight down.

Hell does, in fact, have circles - it's such a basic fact that it was bound to be known on earth - similar to Heaven's spheres or levels; though not all of them host human souls or even demons. The bottom level right above where the Cage is situated could be considered uninhabitable for all but the oldest Hell beasts, ones that were never even human. Monsters that God locked in hell for various reasons, instead of letting them roam Purgatory.

The levels are infinite, but the entirety of the dimension is centered around it's middle; the giant, vertical vortex of a pit that pulls towards itself and down, making it harder for the demons to crawl upwards to the exits - the various gateways leading upwards and out of the bear trap dimension that Perdition is. 

It's a one way down for anything damned, and the angels use it like a waterslide of air currents.

Lucifer gets ahead of the formation, freely expanding his wings and angling his lowest pair backwards to get more balance. He looks back to check on the others, satisfied to see that they're all following, grace at the ready for anything hostile that might appear the moment they leave the relative safety of the space beneath the gates.

He follows the plan as they decided, flying lower and ripping through the steadily rising thickness of the air as they dip, passing the top two levels and swerving sharply into a maw, opening to the side of the central chasm. He can see the energies Hell consists of, the vein-like structure that keeps it together, the nature of it hideous and literally abysmal as it reacts to their Light like a pulsing organism. The cavernous pathway they fly into is colossal; coal black walls slowly giving way to purposely built structures and arches.

This level was never meant for tortured souls. It's a zone placed close enough to reach the other important levels, but not so high that it would seem as if the demons strive to be Upstairs, or so low that it would be dangerous.

It was meant for them; every demon who wasn't responsible for torturing souls, who was moderately important. A hub of sorts for leaders, keepers and makers of contracts. For whoever has the crown.

Structures of black marble, stone and bone stretch over the expansive land, creating a labyrinth for them to fly above, lit up by torches and lighthouses of hellfire. There's no guards, no protection in the roofed sky, a testament to how poorly Hell views Heaven right now, and he can hear faint screetches of warning and alarm far below them, news spreading already.

The palace comes into view - a monumental, obsidian structure, adorned with towers, arches and hell insignia, a skeletal menagerie that only looks royal because of its imposing presence. It towers high up until it dissapears into thick black fog, and the twisted version of a courtyard leading to the massive gates is quickly emptying of demons as they approach, slowing down for a landing.

They back-beat in tandem, their shoes tapping down onto the ashy ground. Lucifer stretches his six wings into the air for a few seconds, forming a backdrop of glowing feathers and then folding them after his presence is announced. He lets his grace flow out, not just to pervade the area and make anything demonic cringe, but to make sure nobody will attack them as well.

Araqiel and Jehoel flank him while he takes a few steps forward, the two guard soldiers keeping behind and watching their backs, which Lucifer is doing already. “ **We are here,”** He says firmly, grace carrying his voice through the courtyard, “ **to speak with your king.”**

He carefully observes the mass of smoke, skin and bone in the shadows, waiting until a smaller demon slinks out a few small steps, blood red eyes looking from five sockets. The mutilated soul detaches a bony, stringy arm and points at the palace door, waiting a beat before it disappears to hide with the rest. 

Lucifer doesn't dwell on their fear, as it is only natural; he turns to the palace and starts striding, the others following right behind him. The path is deathly quiet now, only the sizzling of fire and distant clamor as they quickly make their way up the short, but ginormous staircase, and Lucifer waves a hand, willing the front gate to open.

The inside is as ostentatious as he expected, sanded marble covering the smooth floor, the entrance hall widening into an almost cavernous space. The long, wide hallway is supported by ornate pillars, spaced out evenly towards the end, up the steps to a large, empty throne. But they're not alone.

He can sense him, pinpoint his location before he lays eyes on him and Asmodeus straightens up and walks towards them confidently, not an ounce of surprise on his face - though as a prince and presumably the current owner, he would have felt them enter the realm.

He's dressed in a white, tidy suit, in a middle aged vessel sporting gelled hair and a beard. The symbolism isn't lost on Lucifer. He feels a familiar pang of hate when he practically smells himself and the Mark on the demon, even though he hasn't seen him in millennia, noting the scar he made over his face that would mar the skin of every vessel he took.

He's kind of glad the demon isn't in his true form, that Araqiel doesn't have to look at the remnants of tawny wings or gunmetal talons.

“Welcome to my humble abode, _angels_ ,” Asmodeus drawls, the man's vocal cords shaping around a southern accent, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He's confident, too confident; there's no demons crawling at the sides and waiting, just the echo of his voice. But Asmodeus isn't stupid, he isn't dumb. He's weak, but he's old; he knows them. He spoke with them, completed the same duties. He knows their language, their enochian magic. Sam gets a bad feeling, dread and suspicion, and he aches to ready his blade.

“We're here about your new rule,” he declares, choosing not to exchange fake pleasantries or waste time. Something smells wrong. “There's a few things we want to discuss.”

Asmodeus blinks languidly at him, one side of his face smirking just noticeably. “Ah, Lucifer, so good to see you.” He says, eyes glancing over the established angels at his sides. “You're not here to... take it, I presume?”

“No.” Lucifer says simply, not feeling any need to explain his reasonings. “But Heaven has conditions regarding your power on Earth. We won't be calling it submission, but you'll be following our rules if you want to have any sway over this dump.”

Not that Hell doesn't have any value - it's both a storage unit, a handy prison, and keeps its own knowledge and history. But it's worthless to Lucifer, it always has been.

Asmodeus just exhales, as if the conversation is boring him, and Lucifer briefly pierces the muddy black shielding his aura to read him, lips twitching down at all the cunning menace, roiling like thunder clouds over a sea of carob brown. “And what would Heaven demand?” Asmodeus asks, a hint of sarcasm mixing into the faux respectful tone.

Lucifer straightens. “Inform your demons they are to return to Hell if they want to live. We will close Hell's passages to the mortal plane, and any demon who is there when we do so will be executed. You'll be keeping us posted.”

Asmodeus hums, and starts talking, ignoring Lucifer's statement. Jehoel's grace starts unfurling, just as wary as the archangel's. “Ya know, my ears up top tell me you've joined back with Heaven. Turned your back on Hell. I thought it might have been true, that.” He says, and his yellow eyes are sharp as they narrow. 

He tilts his head, posture relaxed in a plastic manner, mocking them. “You were always too good for this place, weren't you? You never liked it at all. Tell me,” He smiles. “Did daddy give you a good spanking? Sent you running right back to play a good lil' soldier?”

Now that's too far, and Lucifer wants to snarl, wants to march closer and snap the idiot's neck for the absolute audacity, but the feeling of wrongness intensifies, because there's no way Asmodeus is that bold. He's beyond offended, but Sam can take it, can stop at his feathers puffing up in indignation and the temperature dropping below zero. It's not insulting, it's goading, it's intentional provocation, and the only thing that can mean is a trap. He throws his grace out in a shield, a quick force field around his four siblings, stopping the harpoon-like attack Asmodeus had woven together. 

It's powerful, unexpectedly and terrifyingly strong, far stronger than any prince of hell ever managed. It would have killed the seraphim like a bullet spray, and he pushes with his grace out to disperse the energy.

It's not Asmodeus'. 

It's not the floppy, pathetic blackness a demon attacks with. It's a swirling, hybrid mess of black and _gold_ , the purest, most beautiful gold in the Universe, tainted still as it is with demonic essence.   
It's the most crushingly familiar grace Lucifer has ever felt, the most painful recognition, and he screams out in sheer emotion as his Light smashes against the walls, spider-webbing the cracks and glazing them with frost.

He does march now, runs towards the demon while squeezing him in a vice grip, stopping his own feet from slipping on the holy oil Asmodeus spread over the ground between them, ready to roast them alive if his first plan didn't work.

He grabs the shocked demon by the hem of his suit jacket and forcefully lifts him an inch off the ground.

“ _ **WHERE DID YOU GET HIS GRACE?!!”**_ He roars, grace booming out into the palace in a ringing, multi-tonal inhuman sound.

He twists and throws Asmodeus bodily into the nearest pillar so hard the stone cracks behind the prince's invulnerable back. The demon stays dazed for a moment before his eyes clear, but Lucifer is already before him, gripping the collar of his suit and lifting him up again to ram him into the wall. “ _TELL ME!!”_ He screams and presses him against the stone.

Asmodeus' eyes are filled with his familiar cowardice, but he glares daggers at him anyway, aborting self-preservation instincts. “Why should I?”

Lucifer snarls. “ _If you won't tell me,_ ” He growls-rings out, “ _I'll tear it out of you myself.”_

He lifts him up, turns them around and throws the demon down onto the tiled floor, pins him down and practically straddles him, grinding a knee into his stomach to keep him still and raising his wings above him, feathers standing on end like shards of ice.

Asmodeus tries to use the stolen grace again, but Lucifer squashes his efforts before he can try. He doesn't pay attention to his siblings, his current mission overtaking him, even though demons are filling into the hall, against the walls, keeping away from the violent Light he's shaking with, no loyalty for the prince to inspire bravery.

Lucifer raises both hands to Asmodeus' temples, pressing into the skin and barging into the demon's essence just gently enough to avoid crushing him. He rips through his thoughts, seeking out a location, searching out images that make his blood boil. Asmodeus lets out a gut wrenching scream as white veins of light spread from Sam's hands to his yellow eyes, burning him from the inside out starting with his mind. Lucifer presses further, extinguishing the demon in a few seconds of absolute agony before the last wet gurgle dies in Asmodeus' throat. 

His charred head lolls to the side when he stands up and plows over the tiles. Jehoel is examining the remnants of the demon's essence with wide, shocked eyes, and Lucifer can't find words to say because he can barely think anything other than

 _GABRIEL_.

He just gives his siblings a look, conveying his devastation and panic and vengeance in a maelstrom of flickering grace, sorry that he's about to stray from their plans but not enough to explain.

Jehoel just looks away, taking charge the moment Lucifer ditches the role as if he always knew it was a possibility, and the archangel snaps all his wings open and bursts out of the palace like a blazing projectile, waves of grace slaughtering demons on his way like blowing out candles.

He collapses anything that stands in his way, tearing through the city like tissue paper until he can fly out and into the pit, making his way to where his little brother is hanging off warded chains, leaking blood onto the rough stone beneath, as he did the last time Asmodeus thought back to him and Lucifer devoured the memory. 

Hell revolts and bends like a shrieking animal, and he tears into it with no elegance, only brutal divine wrath burning at the stone and piercing through the fog, his siren wail trembling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GABRIEL I AM COMING
> 
> | Faorgt iadnah - dwelling place of knowledge, like an eyrie |  
> Enochian used is from three different dictionaries. There's words that mean entire phrases, but the vocabulary is very limited, so I improvised with words that never had a known meaning: lephe=efficient, fast, gephna=tutor, teacher
> 
> The demon exorcism scene was inspired by the one in the show, but since this is Sam he doesn't do the same things Lucifer did and the demon is a different one. In season 4, Ruby and the other demons were straight up terrified of angels. I thought that attitude was more realistic than the one in later seasons. 
> 
> Just like in Heaven, angelic wings react to the surroundings with more solidity and are visible. A human in hell or in heaven would see the grace more than anywhere else, so the angel would be perceived as a brightly glowing figure with wings, although they wouldn't percieve the color of their Light.
> 
> This story doesn't have a villain - Asmodeus was only used as a crutch to finally insert Gabriel, and my impatience only afforded him one chapter :I


	17. It's not for me to give you absolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, I scrambled the pieces of it together in two long weeks, but I realized I hadn't posted in like a month so now ya get two chapters in one day •.•
> 
> You will be frustrated, but hold on and keep thy hope.
> 
> It's another overly detailed chapter in which Gabriel is hurt, LuciSam is annoyingly self-deprecating and emotionally immature, and Castiel is absolutely done with the Winchesters' back-and-forth BS.

His muscles burn in protest as he beats his wings against the pull, rising out of the central column and towards the Hellgates. His four siblings circle the greyish skies, waiting for him, and Lucifer yells at them to return to Heaven, passing with them through the barrier and storming through the veil like an arrow.

His younger brother's broken body is small in his arms, and his lower pair hugs around him for more support while Lucifer looks down every five moments to check on him.

Gabriel is alive. He's alive, _he's alive, HE'S ALIVE._

The smaller archangel is too out of it to properly react, stunned by the clamor and movement, numbed by his lack of grace. That has to be the most terrifying thing about it. His vessel speaks of the torture Asmodeus put him through, but that can be healed with little effort; it's just a shell. Grace, however, takes time to recover, especially one as old and powerful as an archangel's. And removing it is like cutting out organs without anesthetic. He wishes he gave Asmodeus a slower death.

Sam wants to cradle him, comfort him, fix him up; he wants to hold his hands and apologize, so much, for what he had done to him. His eyes are blurring, and he flies through the veil faster than his siblings, reaching Heaven and bursting through close to the infirmary, pulling his wings in so they don't get in the way.

He holds Gabriel under his armpits and knees, rushing the last few meters to the infirmary's open double doors, jumping around stunned younger siblings. “OUT OF MY WAY!!” He screams, plowing through while clutching his brother close and carrying him to the nearest empty bed, setting him down as gently as he can.

The Host ripples and calls Gabriel's name, news spreading like a shockwave, siblings looking at the damaged grace, a swarm of curiosity and alarm and worry. It's too much noise, even Lucifer can hear it even though he's not supposed to, and Gabriel jerks, his eyes widening and scampering back into the wall. He's reacting, finally, but he's terrified, and Lucifer jumps to him and gently grabs his shoulders to stop him from hurting himself further. “No, Gabriel, it's me! It's me, it's Lucifer-” He turns to the siblings, to the noise.

“Out! Everybody _out!”_ He commands, his voice rasping. He finds Nadiel's shocked, worried eyes. He needs a healer. “Everyone but Nadiel.” 

They obey immediately, a few of them giving him looks of doubt, as if he would ever hurt Gabriel again, and they leave the spacious room. The exclamations over the Host don't stop smashing against Gabriel's deprived senses, but he calms down just a little, staring at him with wide open eyes and trembling. Nadiel kneels down on the bed, fingers twitching to heal, her grace a mess.

Sam feels sick looking at his wounds now. The worst is his face, beaten and bloody, his mouth a mess of scars and stitches, because the demonic motherfucker _sewed his mouth shut._ There are abrasions on his wrists and ankles, barely hidden by the torn rags he's wearing, needle marks over his arms and his neck.

Nadiel can stand it about as much as he can, and her hands join his right away, grace stretching out to heal him. Gabriel jerks, but Lucifer moves so he's sitting closer to him. “It's okay, please just let us heal you,” He says, quiet and urgent. “Bri, you're safe. You're in Heaven.” He tries to be soothing, and it works just enough so that he lets the healer immerse his vessel with grace. Lucifer immediately stretches his out, vanishing the stitches and anything foreign so that Nadiel can heal properly and avoid accidentally fusing the wire into Gabriel's skin.

He cleans away the dirt and blood, hesitating at his clothes. Would it be intrusive to change them? He doesn't know what he has a right to do, now that he's betrayed his little brother. Gabriel shudders, his lips pressing together like they're still forced to do so, curling into himself and hugging his knees. His amber eyes peek over his folded arms, staring intently at Lucifer with residual fear that he shouldn't experience as an archangel. Asmodeus is gone.

Nadiel checks him over, only touching him gently with her fingertips, turning a questioning glance to Sam.

Gabriel just sits, silent, scared.

His diminished grace tries to fold around him in protection, but his wings don't form. Lucifer can't stand it. “We need to recover his grace,” he says to Nadiel, keeping his voice quiet.

“How?” Nadiel whispers.

Gabriel doesn't react to them at all, and panic twists his heart into a knot. He scoots back and manifests a glass vial. “I'll give him some of mine.” He blurts. It's the least he can do for Gabriel. He should do more.

He's wary of summoning his blade in front of Gabriel, so he turns around for a second, just so he can make a quick cut into his grace, but Nadiel's hand shoots out and grabs his wrists, making the vial fall onto the sheets. “Wait!” She yelps.

He gives her a dirty look, meaning to ask why the hell, but she hurries. “Brother, that can't be a good idea. Your grace is the only thing holding your soul together.” She takes a deeper breath, staring at his chest. “If you cut any of it out, it could collapse. Or you might cut your soul.”

Lucifer blinks and looks down, setting his eyes on himself. She's right, he realizes as he looks at his misshapen, stretched into veins human soul. It's only held up and functioning because it's immersed in grace. “Oh,” he mumbles, feeling useless again. “Yeah.”

Nadiel glances at the door and to him, determined. “We can do it. Every sibling that you've helped heal, our grace is strong. We can all contribute.”

The look he gives her is full of surprise, but she smiles back warmly, not commenting on his assumption that Gabriel or him wouldn't receive help even though her opinion is clear. She turns her head to the door again and closes her eyes, her grace pulsing outward. Lucifer can almost hear her talking, distant mumbling of a Host-wide plea for help, explanation of the situation Gabriel is in.

The warm, amber colors that ripple out through the hallway make Sam's eyes water, the determination and concern like the most beautiful painting of family he hasn't seen since way before his fall. It might be meant for Gabriel, the most loved archangel, but it still turns his heart into a puddle.

“There,” Nadiel says, relieved, “They'll be soon enough. I know our grace doesn't compare, but we can speed up his recovery.”

Sam reaches out and lightly squeezes her hand. “Thank you.” She grins at him before they turn their attention back to Gabriel, watching the exchange through half lidded eyes, his grace moving in tandem with the Host, naturally assimilating into the mass of his siblings now that he's here again, shying away from the concern and welcome pressing at his mind.

Lucifer sits in front of him, unsure of what to say or do. He wants to apologize, but he needs privacy for that, so he settles on simply talking to Gabriel, hoping for any words and steering clear of Asmodeus. “Hey, Gabriel.” He whispers, “you- you can relax now, this is Heaven's infirmary. You'll get better, our... our siblings are going to pool some grace together and help you along.”

He takes a shaky breath. Gabriel seems to understand, and he gives the tiniest nod, leaning back on the wall and gripping his knees with his hands. His eyes don't meet Lucifer's, but they raise up from his feet to the older archangel's chest, towards his soul.

Nadiel carefully detaches herself from the bed. “I'm going outside,” she informs, “I'll come back later with the grace.”

Sam hums in acknowledgement and brushes his grace against hers in thanks, letting her leave the room and close the doors behind herself. The infirmary is quiet, or it would be if it wasn't for the buzzing in the background. 

He looks at Gabriel again, and his little brother's whiskey eyes glance up to his for a split seconds before staring at his stomach again. “He's... he's gone, Gabriel,” He says quietly, expecting a flinch but thinking that Gabriel should know that his captor is dead. “He won't hurt you again.”

Gabriel doesn't even nod this time, he just stares down with an empty look, his grace folding together, anxiety and confusion melding together into a mess of purple and slate.

“Can you say something?” Sam asks quietly. He doesn't want to push, he probably shouldn't, but this scares him. He raised this kid, and he's never once shut up. Now he won't open his mouth. He shifts a little, thinking of what to say now. Nadiel left, knowing he needed privacy, that Gabriel might speak if they were alone, so he should take that chance. “Gabriel... I'm sorry.” He whispers. “I'm so sorry.”

He hangs his head, and he feels Gabriel's eyes on him again. He needs to get this out though, before it eats him alive. He needs to do it for Gabriel. “I hurt you. I... I thought I killed you.” Voice shaking, he drags a hand through his ashy hair and to his mouth, breathing. 

He falls quiet for a long moment, keeping his composure. Gabriel is quiet as well, until he suddenly moves his right hand, detaching it from the ball he's curled into. He stretches it out towards Lucifer, letting the fingers brush against the front of his jacket, his confused grace prodding at the corners of his older brother before he pulls the hand away again.

Right. What is he supposed to say? He doesn't want to start explaining and make this about himself. He just wishes Gabriel would talk. But it's not like he's hidden - while he can keep his privacy with almost anyone else, Gabriel is an archangel and has almost as much access to what he feels as Lucifer has with lesser angels.

Gabriel stares at his face, and his brow furrows, testament to his brilliant mind working away in there. His lips part soundlessly, mouthing something for a moment before he croaks out the smallest word. “Samsquach?”

Wait. What? Lucifer winces, trying to make the switch from his apology for attempting to kill Gabriel to this. How many times has Gabriel looked at his soul in the past, when he was only Sam? Enough to recognize him even with the changes.

“Y-yeah.” He admits awkwardly. “I'm, um... I'm also Sam. We got mixed up. T-together.”

Gabriel doesn't change his pose in the least, but he does stare at him now instead of avoiding his gaze. At his face, then at his soul some more, taking it in and comprehending, grace a mess of so many colors Sam has trouble reading him until they settle on something like disbelief. Sam hesitates a moment before inching his Light free from the tight confines he keeps it hidden behind, allowing Gabriel to see it more clearly, his surface thoughts and feelings. 

It's not just an introduction, it's trust and it's an apology, serving the proof of his remorse and grief for his little brother to see. Gabriel blinks, but he keeps quiet. He just looks at his guilt, sitting there awaiting rejection or acceptance.

There's a knock at the door, and after a few seconds of warning Nadiel slips in. She carries three elegant glass vials, each full of mixed, variant grace from multiple siblings, holding it as carefully as she can so that nothing breaks. She steps to the bed, politely ignoring Sam's wet eyes and his quickly folding grace in favor of setting the grace down beside Gabriel.

“Whenever you're ready, brother,” She tells him quietly before turning to Lucifer. “Perhaps it would be better if you moved somewhere else, where it's quieter and private.” She whispers, “Everyone is asking questions about what happened, and Jehoel doesn't have all the answers. And,” She grimaces slightly, almost in embarrassment. “Castiel is outside as well, asking for you as soon as possible.”

Demanding, more likely. Sam bites his lips and nods curtly. “Moving is a good idea. Can you...” He glances to Gabriel, against the idea of leaving him even for a minute. “Can you tell everyone they'll know soon? Gabriel needs some time first, so just... keep going as you did.”

Nadiel worries her lower lip in a similar manner as him. “Alright. Our siblings will understand.” She looks past him over the infirmary, her eyes stopping on one of the side doors leading out into the hallways. Her grace pulses for a second before she blinks. “Aralim can take you somewhere, I'll go out and explain.” 

Gabriel shifts a foot, a glimmer of turquoise recognition briefly striking through his Light. 

As said, Aralim's dainty form slips through the doors inside, her wings twitching when she practically runs to them as if she'd rather fly. Her face splits into a relieved grin and she kneels down beside the youngest archangel, touching his hand. “Brother.” She exhales, her grace a splash of joy and concern and old grief. Gabriel smiles weakly, the way he didn't smile at Lucifer, and grasps her hand back.

Lucifer shrugs away the dejected feelings and stands up first, taking the vials with him. Aralim looks questioningly at Gabriel, who slowly lifts himself, keeping his mouth shut the whole time. They follow her as she stands in front of the closed side door, and Sam watches in confusion as Aralim runs her hands down it, concentrating before opening it to an empty hallway.

The surprise of it doesn't last long, especially since the rooms can move around as commanded, and Lucifer looks curiously around what must be another part of heaven meant for envesseled angels: the hallway expands into a variety of open rooms, offices and break areas; despite the white coloration it's homely, especially with sofas and various items strewn across tables and chairs. 

Aralim gestures for them to follow her as she walks past a small, open conference room and into one of the remote break rooms. Sam doesn't touch Gabriel now that he's moving freely, and the younger archangel silently sits down on a large couch, digging his toes into the thick rug on the floor and gluing his eyes to his knees again.

Lucifer hesitates for a moment, then sits down as well on the other side, setting the donated grace down. Aralim fidgets. “Do I need to leave? I will if you need privacy, I just...” She looks at Gabriel. 

The messenger was close to a lot of his younger siblings before the fall. He wasn't just adored, he was well liked - unlike Lucifer he didn't think it below him to care for fledglings or play. He didn't think he was above anyone, and he was respected for it, juggling the orders he gave as an archangel with the warm relationships he nurtured as a brother. Lucifer had no idea how to break away from his rank to be a brother anymore, stopped being one after a few billion years, and his interest faded away. Now, he doesn't have the heart to send Aralim away when all she wants is to be with a brother she missed.

Gabriel sends them both searching looks, and Lucifer gives him the reins to make whatever decision he wants. To his surprise, Gabriel stands up, his legs no longer shaking, makes a step towards his younger sister, and spreads his arms in a hesitant invitation, unsure about the physical touch he's initiating. 

Aralim immediately takes it, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle hug and letting out a short laugh when he briefly hugs her in a stronger embrace, sniffing into his shoulder. “I'm so glad you're okay.” She whispers, her blonde hair falling over her face.

Gabriel lets go after a few long moments and gives Aralim a smile, stretching out his grace and brushing it against hers. Lucifer watches in left-out confusion over from the couch, trying to read the meaningful shifting of weakened grace, but he's not part of this exchange and he can't tell, maybe Gabriel doesn't want him to. Aralim nods and raises a hand to wipe at her eyes with a sleeve. 

“Um, I'll go help the others,” she says awkwardly to Lucifer, realizing how uncomfortable the situation must be for him and unknowingly making him feel worse about himself. “See you soon.”

She takes two wobbly steps backwards to give Gabriel another happy look and turns around, her steps receding into the distance as she turns a corner. 

Gabriel must have sent her away, albeit gently. Either because he needs silence or because of Lucifer, he can't tell.

Sam keeps sitting there, genuinely lost as to how he should act now. He never thought he'd see Gabriel again, he didn't dare make a scenario in his head over what their reunion would look like. All he could ever remember was the shocked, shattered look on his little brother's face when Lucifer pushed the blade into his chest.

He doesn't understand how Gabriel is alive, but that's a question he's not going to ask, especially not that way, afraid of how it may be taken.

Gabriel shuffles back to the couch and huddles into the bend of it. 

Maybe he needs silence. Maybe he needs coaxing, to speak and to act. Maybe he needs a minute and he'll talk by himself when he's ready. Lucifer doesn't know, he isn't good at this stuff, and pulling on the old, compassionate parts of himself that he used to comfort and sympathize, that he's largely disregarded, is clumsy and difficult to do. He doesn't want to make this about himself, like his thoughts always spin around himself and his situation, he wants all his attention to be on _Gabriel_.

Lucifer shuffles in place, chews his bottom lip, waits. It's tearing him up inside, this inability and uselessness, the uncertainty of an entirely new situation, unexpected and uncharted. He's flailing. Gabriel simply sits, his unmoving eyes fixed on the glass coffee table at the other sofa in this imitation of a day room. He just breathes.

“Gabriel?” Lucifer says, because the silence and the stillness are getting to him. 

The youngest archangel, a weakened, beaten creature inside the healed up vessel, shudders more harshly when Lucifer's voice raises up. His lips press together, relax, stretch, like he's testing them, like he expects there to be something holding them together still, finding a position that used to be the most 'comfortable'.

Lucifer doesn't dare ask what happened. Because he doesn't know what went on with Gabriel since he thought he died, and those six years that followed are shrouded in morbid expectation and dread. How long did Asmodeus have him? How long had he been violating him? How much of it is Lucifer's fault?

Gabriel looks at him again, glancing at his soul once before his eyes sink into the soft white leather, stopping on the grace. His throat rasps. “I've missed a lot, huh.”

It's a rhetorical question, more of a statement, and Lucifer tries to find something to say back and comes up empty. He doesn't want to talk about himself again. He doesn't want to feel rotten.

Gabriel takes a moment again before looking up at his chest - through it, really, because it's not his jacket that's interesting. “That...” His voice is small. “Slapped me in the face, bro.”

Lucifer's lips thin into a line. What will Gabriel think about this? He pushes the thought away again, trying to keep his expectations in line, because Gabriel's past comes first. 

“I can hear you, you know.” Gabriel sighs into his knees. “You're not subtle with the emo.”

Lucifer winces. “I'm sorry.”

“You've said that.” Gabriel retorts quickly, and his eyes stab themselves off into a corner. His demeanor changes suddenly, and he's all small again, his hands under his knees.

His mouth starts working itself again, like he's losing his grip of language, like speech is something that's conditional. “...Asmodeus is dead?” He chokes out.

Lucifer nods immediately. “Yes.”

Gabriel exhales sharply through his nose, his tone dark. “Good.” 

They stop the streak of conversation they managed again then, Gabriel working through the information and gathering his thoughts together. “Well, obviously I'm still alive,” he starts up again, “That whole thing was a stunt I pulled to get out of the whole apocalypse thing you guys had going on.”

Lucifer wets his dry lips. A stunt. “Where... did you go afterwards?”

Gabriel shrugs, giving a deceptively nonchalant answer, even though his grace twists into a murky brown. “Same place as the first time.” Lucifer doesn't hold back his visible confusion at that, and Gabriel shifts on the couch, his words coming easier now. “I cashed in a favor from Loki, the pagan god I posed as. He showed me the ropes, helped me escape the archangel and... be him, you know. I thought I could come back again and he'd take me in.”

“What happened? Did he refuse?” Sam asks carefully, trying to piece together the story in his head.

Gabriel huffs a laugh. “For a hot minute, yeah. Then it didn't pan out like I thought it would.” His mouth curves into a frown, and he quits talking again, just looking down with an expression that speaks of anger and grudges. Lucifer lowers his eyebrows. “What did he do?”

He doesn't get an answer. Gabriel clams up, choosing not to give a verbal response, and looks to the vials of grace between them. He carefully lifts one up, moving it to his lap and staring at the Light swirling inside, but doesn't make a move to add it to his dangerously low reserves yet. Lucifer looks at the colors with him, waiting for Gabriel to talk again. 

“You know, some of it was your fault,” the younger mumbles, “Michael's, too. It was revenge, because you massacred the pagans. Odin was one of them, and he was Loki's dad.”

Lucifer cringes, thinking back to the meeting the gods organized to try and plot against him. Then he has a horrible suspicion. “Did Loki rat you out to Asmodeus?”

Gabriel scoffs humourlessly. “His kids actually, and they sold me. So there's that.”

_Sold_ him. A bunch of worthless pagans, cobbled-together creatures that are below humans on the principle of serving them, being dependent on them. Lucifer feels the beginnings of a scowl taking shape on his face, the urge to find, avenge, destroy, pay Gabriel back for what he's done to the younger archangel rising up like a tidal wave, but he keeps sitting. Gabriel swats the air and glares at him, bitter. “Yeah, _no_. Don't even start with that protective crap, Lucifer. Not you of all people.”

Lucifer feels his heart shatter like a poorly glued together vase, again, not as distant as he thought it might feel, but as raw as the moment he turned Gabriel's blade on him. Of course he doesn't have that right anymore. His little brother doesn't hold his gaze, and honestly, he can't look him in the eyes either.

Gabriel picks up the vial again, his fingers finding the glass cap and plucking it off. It's likely he's only doing this now because he needs a distraction to postpone the hard conversation coming, avoid Lucifer for a minute longer, but whatever the cause he lifts it and pulls the grace towards himself. It doesn't make a big difference when it melts into his, but it might help him recover faster, especially since being in Heaven is like plugging him into an energy generator.

Gabriel breathes for a moment before moving on to the next, inhaling the grace almost desperately now that he's that much more aware of what he's missing. 

Sam waits until he's done. “Gabriel, what I did... I shouldn't have-” He falters, releases a shaky breath. “Can you forgive me?”

Gabriel stares up at him, blank expression broken up by flashes of pain and longing and resentment. He sighs and sets down the empty vials. “Listen...” He closes his eyes. “Asmodeus hurt my grace, and he hurt my vessel. My pride, obviously, took a hit. But he was just a power-hungry stranger,” he states quietly. “His torture? It didn't hurt me nearly as much as what you did.” He looks at him again, and his gaze holds the ghost of the same shattering sadness they did when Lucifer supposedly killed him. “Because you're my older brother. I trusted you, and yeah you were off the rocker and you needed to be stopped. But I never thought that you'd...”

Lucifer blinks his eyes clear, and his voice is just a whisper. “I'm sorry.”

“I know you are.” Gabriel shrugs, giving a brittle smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “But it doesn't fix what happened, does it.”

His fingers pat down the grey rags he's still wearing, and he frowns at them, while Lucifer simply nods mutely, tearing his gaze away from Gabriel's tattered grace. He lost Gabriel's trust, and with it the precious chance of renewing the relationship between them - a hope he didn't even know he cultivated in the short time he was aware of Gabriel's life.

“I didn't actually answer the question.” Gabriel mutters at him, making him flinch. The youngest archangel gives him the side eye, his warm brown eyes glistening. “I didn't say no. Not that it's a yes, because you hurt my feelings, you ponce.”

Lucifer opens his mouth, gaping like a sad fish for a second before he chokes out a small, “Thank you.” He's getting a 'maybe' and it's the biggest relief, because he gets to try and he has a second chance, and he doesn't feel an ounce of need to hide how base and urgent his gratitude is, not like he did Before, when he had too much pride to acknowledge it.

Gabriel's lips quirk up in a lopsided smile, almost uneasy. 

Lucifer peeks a little closer, the way Gabriel's been doing this entire conversation, and he suddenly sees how _strange_ he himself is. Because before now, nobody's seen his jumbled thoughts, seen his soul and grace so clearly, witnessed his emotions flitting everywhere from 'The world is ending and it's all my fault' and jumping to 'This is the peak of my existence'. Gabriel is staring right at it, and he isn't sure whether Lucifer is this emotionally unstable because he's there again or just because LuciferSam is a mess.

“Uh... everyone's calling for you.” Gabriel comments, gesturing at the air with his hand. “As in, explanation is pending.”

He hadn't known. He might have heard the swarming white noise and saw the Light of his siblings while they were close, but he went metaphorically deaf the moment they moved somewhere private. Gabriel blinks at him. “Are you the new commander in town? It seems that way to me.”

Lucifer shrugs, hesitant. “I've been helping with stuff. I haven't taken over.”

“That's not how it goes with us, though. If we come, we lead, either because we want to or because obeying us is what our siblings do,” Gabriel mumbles to his knees.

It's a fact, yes, one that Gabriel's always been more upset about than Michael and Lucifer, but the younger two archangels had managed to find ways to socialize regardless. Gabriel sighs and shivers, whispering now. “There's so few.”

“A lot happened.”

Gabriel huffs a small, resigned sigh. “The Fall, I know. I felt it, and I felt Amara too. You all have been _busy_.”

The youngest archangel has always been part of the Host; he might have escaped and pushed Heaven as far as he could, but he would have felt it. He would have felt the angels scream when their wings burned, the lives that were taken in the civil war and Castiel's extermination. He would have felt the Darkness rejoin the Universe - even Lucifer sensed that, and he was as far removed as anyone could ever be from existence.

Gabriel's grace twitches among the Host's Voices and twists itself into tiny metaphorical knots before closing off again. It must be so empty. But Lucifer can't feel it, he can't imagine it; all he's _had_ is emptiness, long enough for his Light to go numb and his own voice to go quiet.

“I can catch you up,” He offers, “On everything that's happened. And we do need to tell our siblings about this, and then you can recover properly, we can probably scrounge up more grace.”

Gabriel swivels his head around, making a small, disinterested sound that his grace doesn't match. “Sounds like you expect me to stay.”

Lucifer frowns, and a streak of oversaturated panic drips over his lungs, and his speech immediately loses all articulacy. “You mean- you're not? Gabriel, you need to recover, your grace is depleted. Why would you- can't you just stay?”

Gabriel's messy hair falls forward, covering his eyes. “There's nothing for me here, Lucifer. I have my own stuff to do, and you're being a brother again all on your own here anyway. I moved on from that.”

Lucifer shakes his head in disbelief. What Gabriel did with Aralim proves the opposite, doesn't it? His maybe has to mean something more. “What? You just _got here._ We haven't even talked about everything- why would you-” His words keep butting into each other, and he growls at himself. “No, you can't...”

“I can't what?” Gabriel snaps, bitter. “You can't tell me what to do or where to go. I make my own decisions, I lead my own life.” His voice is raspy, and his words don't ring true, but it still slaps Lucifer like a whip. “It's great that you're fixing stuff or whatever. Really,” Gabriel rasps, and he stands up in one smooth motion. “But I left this behind for a reason, and I'm not going back.”

Lucifer stands up again, takes a few steps away because he can't bear looking down on Gabriel like a patronizing asshole. “Those reasons don't exist anymore, Gabriel.”

Gabriel scoffs, his eyes windows into a broken interior that Lucifer wants to scream and cry at. When did he cause it? Was it him and Michael, with their fighting? When did Gabriel break? “Sure, because what. Mickey is still in the Cage where you left him? 'Cause there's nobody to fight anyway?” Gabriel asks sarcastically. 

“Because I don't want to fight.” Sam states back, keeping his cool. “Because you're still family. All of you, of them.”

Gabriel stops, falling silent immediately in a disbelieving, mute reaction, stepping back and tilting his head in something like morbid realization. “Huh.” He mouths quietly, then smiles at him - a grimace that twists his face into something between a frown and a crooked smile. “But that's not really you saying it, huh. Because you wouldn't care, Lucifer. Not anymore.”

Sam comes to a screening halt, gapes, and a terrible suspicion dawns on him. “Is this about my soul? Gabriel, what are you saying-”

“I'm _saying_ you stopped giving a damn a long time ago.” Gabriel snaps. “This isn't about your shiny lightbulb. It's about you, because you can't give me an apology and think it'll unbreak what you ruined between us. And you especially can't use somebody else's guilt complex to say it to me.”

Sam stares, tries to get his mouth in gear, trying to grab onto something, panicking because he doesn't want Gabriel to leave, Gabriel can't leave already, but he knows that flicker of grace that signals a stretch of wings, ready to appear like ethereal sails. He wants to yell _no, not true_ , and Gabriel is just tired, he's being irrational and he should sit down and take a deep breath and think so they can make up, he should go back to the _maybe_ , and they'll fix the wreck of their home together and they'll both be loved- but Sam is frozen in place and his voice grinds into something lost and panicked.

Gabriel takes two steps back, barefoot still, deflates back to looking lost and sad and the opposite of what he should be, because Gabriel has always been the ray of sunshine, positive and sure, forgiving and kind-hearted. “It was good to see you,” He mumbles, halfheartedly throwing the phrase at him, and then he's gone. His wings unfurl, directly into a flap, but he still sees the tattered gold feathers before Gabriel slips into the folds of reality as quickly as a messenger would ever need.

The archangel doesn't want to be followed; Lucifer doesn't think he _can_ , and it's not just because his wings aren't his own anymore and Gabriel would see them. He feels so bloody aware all at once - of how broken it all is. His entire family that he's trying to put together, trying to connect with siblings while leaving old bridges to their fires.

Gabriel left. Just... just like that.

He thought it would be different. He thought Gabriel would stay, and heal, and maybe, just maybe, they'd fix their relationship and repair their home together. He forgot that he's not the only one who changed. Not the only one who hasn't been a part of this family in millennia, who's learned how to be alone.

He sways a little when he moves again, reeling, knowing that everyone's probably noticed Gabriel left already and he can't answer, he can't _hear_ , and suddenly he's so frustrated about that fact. He doesn't want to be alone in the silence, not right now. So he moves, because he has no right to go chasing after a brother he tried to murder, and he can't take a choice from Gabriel, because it's true that his siblings need information. He takes flight, skirting to the hallways near the meeting rooms, spacious and loud with distant voices. 

Grace pushes against the walls he's cobbled together, and he turns to Ophaniel when he runs past the siblings to him, parting for the head cherub's mauve wings. 

Lucifer takes in the shower of questions, gives them answers - removed when he states facts that he knows, that they have rescued Gabriel, that he is okay, that he chose to leave. He's so numb he has trouble following his own words, doesn't even remember what he said while he watches the disappointment and alarm spread again.

He's tired, again, like he needs to sleep because of course he does, he's expanded a lot of energy in these last days and therefore needs to 'recharge', needs to temporarily shut down because if his soul goes to sleep then so does the rest of him, and he hates and craves that carefree oblivion so much right now.

At some point, Castiel's familiar grace appears before him, standing out among the other angels who pay him no mind right now, and he takes in Lucifer's blank stare and pulls him away from the noise by the wrist, and the archangel lets his legs stumble after the seraph.

A side room, really, like a broom closet to pull a schoolmate in for a quick, secretive conversation, and Lucifer is so lost for some reason. Maybe it's the shock, his swept away belief that his favourite brother was dead, his constant guilt that wasn't ever addressed. It's a lot, and as it turns out the chatter doesn't help.

Castiel came at him in urgent need of answers, but he's just waiting now, confused, and LuciferSam looks down at him, exactly the same as he had been every day the past seven years, perpetual trench coat and messy dark hair, and it hits him. 

“I don't even know where you've been these past days,” He says suddenly, and Castiel's eyebrows drop in confusion, words dying in his mouth. “I've no idea what you've been doing,” Lucifer continues, struck dumb and he doesn't know why. “Or what Dean's been doing.”

Castiel blinks, frowning. “Why are you saying this? Brother, _what happened_ with Gabriel?”

Lucifer shakes his head, voice trailing. “He... left. He's gone again.” Why does everyone leave him? It's his fault, isn't it. His past mistakes, his ego, razing down the ones he loves because the end goal was more important, because he just couldn't bring himself to care. He hasn't even thought about Castiel these past days other than an occasional glance at his grace, because he's _pretty_ sure Cas has been helping out in the infirmary. He forced himself not to think about Dean at all. 

He didn't ask them anything, he didn't tell them anything about his excursion into hell - Castiel got to know about it over the host, because Lucifer's been avoiding him. He didn't ask for input, and Dean's been left out of their angelic lives completely. Dean is alone, and he probably only hates Lucifer more because not only has he left him and pushed him away, he took Castiel with him, too. Now, he's also driven Gabriel away. They're all alone now in their bubbles and it's Lucifer's fault, it's just his fault.

“I'm terrible,” he tells Castiel, miserable, like it's a fact he's just come to realize. “I left Dean, and he hates me. It's because of me.”

Castiel gives him a flat, tired look that Sam's learned is his own personal bitch face, and his grace surges with frustration and anger. “I am... _so done_. With your absolute _bullshit_.” Castiel groans, gravelly voice spewing the phrase like he's said it before even though he probably hasn't. He glares up at the archangel. “You are wallowing here in self-pity and your avoidance stunts, and you're just enabling Dean's own unhealthy coping methods, and you are both _acting like children.”_

Sam blinks in utter befuddlement. “Huh?”

Cas groans again, and it's a bucket of cold water. “If you want to fix things with Dean, go down there and _fix them_ , you assbutt.”

There's nothing Sam can give back but answering silence, and the seraph is probably reveling in shutting him up so thoroughly somewhere in the back of his mind, secure knowing that Sam wouldn't really hurt him even if he called him something a lot worse to his face. Not that this is what Cas is thinking about, not something even remotely funny. It's desperation, almost, an outburst proclaiming Castiel's hopelessness as he watches a precious thing he cherished slowly slip away.

Lucifer is stumped, and he feels like a blind fool again, because even though he can read the seraph like he can interpret a painting, it never hit him that this is hurting Cas too. That Castiel might have felt the changes of his and Dean's relationship to a bigger extent, which should be obvious, because Castiel has given up everything for the brothers. And hasn't he tried to bring them closer? Hasn't Castiel tried to shake the pent up stuff from Lucifer and get him to talk?

Castiel's breathing calms and he gives him a hard, expectant look. “Well? Are you going to fly there and talk or do you plan on standing here for a few days longer?”

Sam shakes his head free of self-condemnation in favor of action. “I - Yeah, I'm going.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I'm going.”

He gives Castiel one last look, hesitant and shaken, like he's checking for more encouragement or something, and then awkwardly turns to the corner of the room and spreads his wings for flight.

Compartmentalizes Gabriel and Dean, sets Heaven and earth apart, because he can't be both at once, can't keep his head half-turned to his siblings because Dean would know, somehow. He's halfway to earth when he realizes he doesn't have any ideas on what he should say and panics for a few seconds before throwing the useless overthinking away and winging it, both senses of the word. For heaven's sake, he isn't planning an apology like they're an old married couple.

Sam knew approximately which town Dean was attacked in, so he decides to soar above it until he spots his brother's soul, masked from afar by the wardings over his ribcage. The scarce protection Dean puts in every motel room is actually what he finds before the hunter, attracted by the faint glowing markings on the wall behind his bed.

He lands in the room, already knowing Dean isn't in it, red-rimmed eyes skimming over the messy space. Sam's laptop is on the corner table and he walks over to it; picks up the half empty bottle of jack and sets it back down. 

It occurs to him about ten seconds later that he's invasive and shouldn't riffle through Dean's personal things, so he stations himself in the middle of the room, stabbing his eyes into the two beds Dean got. Two of them - just like the last time Dean rented weeks ago when they attempted a hunt together.

Why? Is it a sign that Dean actually wants him there? Is it nostalgia, was it an automatic order and Dean just didn't correct it?

The pins and needles he used to keep everything Dean away in a dark corner ease out of their places and fall apart, letting their last conversation wave at Sam like a smug spot of horror. Dean must have been thinking about it. He's probably built scenarios in his head of what went on in the Cage, what Lucifer did and how he punished Sam, and Dean has serious material to draw from. He chooses not to think about it, plunging his mind into safer, lighter memories, away from Gabriel as well.

Altogether, it doesn't take long for Dean's soul to glimmer into view down the street, and Sam is stuck spinning in place panicking and trying to keep himself visible while his grace reacts to his emotions and he almost fades into the astral plane to be invisible.  
  
Dean is down the hall and in front of the door in what seems like ten seconds, and he's freezing up, standing like a statue in the middle of his room and Dean unlocks and opens the door a moment later. He stops still with his hand on the door knob, staring because he's startled and his breath caught. “You're here,” he blurts, shifting into a more stable stance. Looks around the room with a quick glance. “You're... in my room.”

His mouth twitches down, and Sam realizes he should have waited outside, or knocked when Dean was in here like a normal person. “Yeah,” he eventually admits, “I- I wanted to, you know, talk. To you.”

Dean steps in and shuts the door behind him, turns the light on, then just stands there taking in the sight of him with the same look he's had these past weeks, like he's someone vaguely unfamiliar but not and he's seeing him again after so long he's forgotten the details of what he looked like.

“Oh.” He says. “And you let yourself in?”

Sam shrugs, panicking because he didn't think of it like that, because he's _Sam_ and he's always been welcome. “Sorry.”

Dean blinks and takes a step sideways, dropping his keys on the table. The archangel shifts from leg to leg, itching to get out of the rising awkwardness. “Dean, I have to say something,” he stresses suddenly, making his brother look at him again.

“I don't... _like_ this, how we fight. I've been me for a month already, and we're just getting worse.” He wrings his fists together, looking at them instead of at Dean, glad he only has two eyes to distract and turn around to avoid the human. “Does this have to- to break everything we had? Is this it? What, I go to Heaven and leave you behind to be alone and we're done? I don't _want that_.”

Dean looks at him, sad and tired. “I don't want that either.”

“Then why can't we just-” Sam's hands lift, pull at the back of his jacket's collar, his hair. “Can't we just be brothers? Can't you just...” _Can't you just accept me as I am? Can't you just love me?_ Sam makes a strung-out noise of hopelessness. 

What is it Dean remembers when he looks at him? What is it that disturbs him so much? Lucifer thinks back to mocking Dean while standing in the circle of fire, possessing Cas, to throwing Dean over the room, to the conversations with Dad Dean was there to see, the casual teasing, further back to Lucifer possessing Sam and beating his face up, to raising Death, to almost ending the world, to Sam's panic attacks after the Cage, to his degrading mental state. There's so much. Why did he have to come here? Why couldn't he just be the one responsible archangel and fix up the confusion in Heaven?

Dean shuffles closer, almost conversational distance, and chews his bottom lip. “I don't want to lose... our 'brotherly bond' or whatever,” he says, his usual regard of chick flick moments showing through, “But this is... hard, man. I mean,” he gestures somewhat around Sam. “You're so _different_. You left for Heaven for that first time, and you've just been there longer and longer, and I didn't hear from you in days this time. We have the worst friggin talks whenever you're there, and I can't see you as...” He trails off, letting Sam figure out what he almost said.

“You can't put the two of me together in your head.” Sam says quietly, like a question.

Dean fumbles, voice raising in frustration. “It's not how you're supposed to be, or who! It's not our normal, it's way off the charts- and I keep thinking about how wrong it would be. If we were friends or if we got along,” Dean shakes his head, shuts his eyes, and Sam frowns again because he hates the point Dean is making because it's obscene, at least from his perspective. “It wouldn't be right, and I can't just forgive Lucifer. It's that... Sam wouldn't want me to-”

“-I am RIGHT HERE.” Sam snaps, glaring at Dean and blinking to keep the image clear. Something breaks again, falls apart, and he's gushing words out like a waterfall. “Stop... _pining_ for a version of me that doesn't exist anymore! Stop framing this old ideal that you have of me up in your head!” Dean's mouth opens, so he interrupts him. “It's dumb, and it's hurting me, and I _miss you_.”

LuciferSam takes a step towards Dean, and he's not trying to hide his tears anymore because he's a goddamned crybaby and it's ridiculous but it's just how he is now. So human, such a fucking paradox. “If you're that mad at me, just... just hit me already or something, I don't know!” He yells, “Look me in the eyes for once, _really look_ at me! You don't like that they're grey, big whoop! But you know what, at least I'm trying to be better, and I'm _doing something_ , because you're just here wallowing in misery and drinking like a fish like it's going to help anyth-”

His head whips to the side, the punch coming in unexpected and strong, and it reverberates through his unmoving spinal cord. Dean's knuckles pop, but they don't break, and he only gives a little grunt of pain and switches, sending a hit with his left arm immediately afterwards. Sam lets it ram into his face, turns it to the side so that Dean won't get hurt, and because Dean deserves at least the illusion of being able to affect him in some way.

Maybe this is what Dean needs, to vent that pent up rage and sadness on the right doorstep, to punish Lucifer somehow, and it suits Sam just fine because he feels like he should be punished, too. Dean cries out when he hits him, grabs onto his shoulders and drives a knee into his stomach. Sam bends forward slightly, his nose almost touching Dean, and releases the breath it knocks out of him. Dean pushes him away then, lightly, and takes a few heaving breaths, looking at him over tear-stained cheeks. “Bitch.” He mumbles, more to himself than at Sam, then takes a step toward him and pulls Sam close by his jacket.

Sam is too surprised to return the hug at first, arms dangling around the embrace as if Dean is holding up a marionette, but then hesitantly slips them around his brother. Dean doesn't pull away, so Sam squeezes back, burying his head in Dean's shoulder and breathing. Dean's breaths have calmed down, and he sniffles slightly, but doesn't pull away, and Sam is flooded with relief and joy because Dean hasn't hugged or even really touched him since he remembered everything.

It's catharsis, Sam decides quietly, sensing the floodgates of sadness open in Dean's soul, washing away the anger with it, leaving him... calmer. Relieved, just like Sam is, except Lucifer is still an emotional wreck from his reunion and argument with Gabriel and feels like a raw, open wound.

It's perfection. Dean's longed-for relief trickles like warm water over Sam's frostbitten skin, turns and warps until it's validation, doesn't actually fit into what Lucifer demands from everyone, doesn't soothe his touch-starved grace, but it's a step in the right direction and he enjoys the hug with everything he is. 

Deans huffs a small laugh that Sam feels in his chest. “Dude, you stink like hell.” 

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. “Pretty much. It's a long story. I should tell you.”

“In a minute.” Dean slowly detaches from him and wipes his eyes with a sleeve, which Sam imitates, hoping his tears represent an actual emotional release this time, that it meant more than just a representation of his usual constant near-meltdown state of mind. He notices that some dust from down under is still stuck in the creases of his clothing, so he carefully vanishes the ash, hoping Dean won't notice.

“Kay...” Dean mutters again, to nobody in particular. “So, we're... good? Better?” He asks. “Sorry I hit you.”

Sam huffs a laugh, still shaky. “No problem. If it leads to this, feel free to use me as a punching bag anytime. And, um... we'll try. Maybe we'll get better.”

Dean smiles, a little strained, but not as fake as it's been. “Yeah. And, um...” He hesitates. “I know I've been a jerk to you. I've said stuff. I- I know this is hard for you too, definitely harder than it is for me, because I'm not the one who, uh,” he makes a confused twirly motion with his hand around his head. “But I'll try to do better. I'm probably still gonna get angry, and I'm not...” He takes a quick breath. “Really _okay_ with this, because it's messed up and I liked you just fine how you were before-”

“-I get it,” Sam quickly interrupts him, a small smile playing on his lips. Better for Dean to wisely shut up now before he rambles off something that will ruin the moment, because this is great. “Thanks. Really.” 

Dean nods and awkwardly shifts on his legs. “Awesome. Uh, so where's Cas right now?”

“Still in Heaven. He's actually the one who told me to haul ass down here. Called me an assbutt.”

Dean smirks. “Cas reserves that just for archangels.”

Sam just hums, agreeing, even though he was genuinely pissed when Castiel used the... 'insult' on Michael before molotoving him. Just because he told himself he didn't care about Michael didn't mean he would stand by if anyone else tried to hurt him. That doesn't just go away.

He shakes himself. “Dean, you need to know,” he starts, “and this is really important...” Should he tell Dean right now? Would bringing up Lucifer's family in this moment piss Dean off or hurt him? Lucifer just sighs. Dean needs to know, even if Gabriel doesn't want to speak with him. If for no other reason so that Dean no longer lives with the belief that Lucifer murdered a brother he raised.

“What?” Dean frowns.

“Gabriel's alive.” Sam blurts, and Dean's eyebrows shoot up. “ _What_?”

“He's been alive this whole time,” Lucifer rushes, “He was captured and trapped in hell, but we went down there about the new king, who was Asmodeus but I killed him, and we rescued him and I took him to Heaven.”

Dean blinks, processing the information. “Gabriel's alive.” Lucifer nods. “And, what, he's in Heaven now? He's fine?”

“N-no. He left soon after. We talked a little...” Lucifer shrugs like a lost idiot. “His grace is depleted, but we healed him up. He didn't wanna stay.”

Dean frowns, somewhere between hesitant and worried, uncomfortable at the way not-Sam slips into conversation. “Oh. Er, sorry? I don't really know what to say to you about that, man.” 

Lucifer's lips twitch down. “Uhuh. Let's just... not talk about it? I don't want to.”

“Okay.” Dean agrees immediately, steering clear of the topic, and looks around the walls as if searching for something. “When do you have to go back?”

_Asap_. Jehoel is probably tearing his vessel's hair out by now. He took them on a mission that wasn't completed, the original purpose wasn't achieved, they're confused about Gabriel and might think he told him to piss off, and they left Hell without leadership - they just broke in, assassinated their king and bailed. Hell might retaliate. Even if Sam returns to Heaven this minute, he'll still get disappointment, distrust, maybe judgement because he was erratic and irresponsible, though hopefully saving an archangel might cushion the fall considerably.

But on the other hand, the mess in Heaven won't get worse if he takes a tiny break. This is an incredibly important moment, he needs to be with Dean, he needs a few hours to just be Sam. This might be crucial to their relationship, something he wants to salvage, and if he can't be in two places at once then at least he can be smart about this. Besides, Sam could really use sleep right now.

Sam smiles. “Not yet. I'll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few reasons why I made Gabe leave so quickly and why Sam didn't go after him, he'll come back very very soon! I had to remind myself that Gabriel isn't a perfect fix. He wouldn't slot into Lucifer's wishful ideas like a willing little brother. Gabriel is just as hurt, just as broken as he is, and he needs the right push to go in the direction I want him to.
> 
> As to why he didn't take more time to recover: he's an archangel. He wouldn't be hurt by a demon to an extent where he needs bigger amounts of time to recuperate his grace, and archs bounce back from practically anything. His mind wouldn't be damaged either: he's built with a mind that can't be broken, just like how Lucifer is still sane after the Cage, because he could recover no matter how much damage it caused.


	18. Fleeting satisfaction and closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel's pov! A lot of the dialogue is taken from s13: Unfinished Business. Loki's speech is largely copied, because it's important to Gabe (and to me making his character), but the scene goes differently.

Gabriel halfheartedly wipes the blood off of Fenrir's sword before giving up and tossing it to the corner of the room. He doesn't actually need it anymore, now that it's served its purpose.

Slumping back into the sofa the unpaid for hotel room has, he urges his grace to heal his vessel up faster. Being in Heaven, combined with the grace his siblings gifted him with boosted his recovery, but his levels could be described as three quarters empty at best, and Fenrir managed to slash across his stomach before Gabriel got the upper hand and killed him.

Gabriel rubs his hand across his face and exhales into the silence. He's had too many revelations in too short a time, and postponing actually dealing with them was easier before now; vengeance is a good thing in the sense that it provides distraction, some relentless motivation to reach something. Not that his brain has ever stopped mulling it over, because Gabriel is the type of person who can never stop thinking.

He didn't expect the situation he was literally carried into at all, and explaining it to himself was a chore. He knew Heaven was in a horrible condition; hell, it's been rubbed into his face constantly, grating silence against his ears. He can't believe he tried to seek silence from his siblings all those millennia ago when he first ran, and every time he stops moving it reminds him again.

Gabriel felt Amara's jailbreak like a shockwave over all the dimensions from the cramped space Asmodeus set up for him down in hell, hidden like a secret cubicle far away from snooping demons. Where the only company he had was the prince - when he would come for a dose whenever the stolen grace would start waning. Like an addict, sneaking to get at his stash, growling at Gabriel to shut his mouth already - or he _did_ , at first. Gabriel growls and shuts his eyes, banishing the memories.

Lucifer said the demon was gone. Sleeping somewhere nobody gets out of and Gabriel can't touch or see. And Lucifer seemed like lying to Gabriel about anything would cause him to combust right then and there.  
  
Just thinking about him is painful, has been for millennia, and got unbearable a few years ago. Gabriel could never accept what the Mark had done to his once favourite older brother. He kept the crystalline memories of Heylel in a special place in his head, cherished images he'd pull up and view in his hardest, loneliest moments, burying the darker spots deep inside and trying to remember Lucifer in a good light, just like he would have wanted. Heylel became a safe place, someone to go to for comfort, to weep over what was lost. Heylel would have never harmed him - just the idea was unacceptable. 

It's what made it so much more painful. Gabriel thought he knew how Lucifer thought, back then during the 'apocalypse'. That he could do what he's always done _Before_ ; play the little brother, where the possibility of him getting hurt would be enough for Lucifer to side with him, where as always, Lucifer would take his side if it would make _Bri_ happy, if it would mean Gabriel wouldn't get hurt. He was so sure that if he just showed him that fighting would mean fighting Gabriel as well, Lucifer's pretty sapphire eyes would soften, his grace would go all fuzzy and peach; that he'd shake his head just like expected and mutter about Gabriel wrapping him around a talon before amending and going with whatever Gabriel wished for so much.

Because that's how it _worked_. Because Gabriel is the Little Brother and Heylel kept him safe. Sang with him when Gabriel was in the mood for it, which was always. And Gabriel dragged him out to fly, pestered him until Heylel swatted him over the head with a pearly wing.

Except it didn't go like that, and the last dregs of denial, the last hope Gabriel had was shattered and torn apart and he watched Lucifer stab him. Not that Gabriel didn't know how pear-shaped everything and everybody went. Not that Gabriel didn't admit to himself eons ago that it wasn't worth saving anything, wasn't worth his tries. But darn it, it hurt like hell in all the places he thought were already numb. It tore open a new hole in his chest, and it wouldn't close no matter how much alcohol and indulgence Gabriel stuffed it with.

And in some cruel manifestation of irony, it was Lucifer who tore a hole inside the wall of his cell and ripped the chains from the walls before picking him up and beating brand new wings to rescue him like a personal fucking savior. Who took him home and smashed his neurons with unholy amounts of guilt and remorse.

But Gabriel's had plenty of time to think while he sat in the darkness. And Lucifer wouldn't be saving Heaven from the edge, wouldn't be loving his younger siblings, wouldn't be apologizing to Gabriel. And Gabriel doesn't understand what Sam Winchester's soul is about, but he feels the ridged, patchwork landscape of his brother's reshuffled mind and he knows it's not the same as the one he last met.

He knows it's not Lucifer apologizing. Because Gabriel's given up on apologies.

The scratches fully knit together, and Gabriel slowly stands up to walk to the bathroom and get a wet mop. He knows damn well he needs to save his strength for when something inevitably goes wrong, and he won't waste it to look pretty. After he wipes the blood off, he grabs his jacket and puts it on, zipping it up to hide the stains and provide some additional protection. 

If he knows Narfi, and he's pretty sure he does, the loyal pagan abomination will want revenge for his brother's death, and he's the best at tracking other than Fenrir was - Gabriel's knocked down the first domino, and everyone will be out for his blood. And Narfi won't come after him without dragging Sleipnir with him, however unwilling.

He makes his way to the coffe table and flips open the case he grabbed to hold his swords, thanking his paranoid past self that he made them many centuries ago when he got into a fight with Fenrir and remembered how fickle pagan gods could be, turning on each other for the most petty things and knowing that excessive smiting could alert the holy media.

To Gabriel's benefit, the first humans made pagans with their death in mind. Gabriel saw the original rituals even before he left, as angels watched the rise of every sentient species on Earth. Pagan 'gods' came before monsters, before Eve was allowed to alter humans as she wished when what Lucifer did to Lilith didn't seem as unseemly to Father as it did before the Fall.

He remembered the trees humans carved the oldest symbols into, creating beings that would benefit them (sometimes achieving the opposite) and weaving weaknesses into their beliefs. The entities would live as long as they had favor of their creators, as long as they were worshipped - and in history past, tens of thousands of gods were born and faded away with the people who worshipped them, until a flight of angels was sent to destroy the records of the rituals and only the strongest, well remembered gods remained.

Every pagan could be killed with that which it was made with - and there were plenty of trees to go around, especially millennia ago. So, stakes - or a katana, which in Gabriel's opinion was just more stylish.

He pulls a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket and looks at the names again. Fenrir's is already crossed off, and only three remain, three traitors he still needs to punish for the six years he was held by Asmodeus. Revenge for six years of loneliness and torture, for the excruciating pain of getting his grace extracted. He stuffs it back into his pockets and grabs the swords, one in each hand, then walks out the door.

It's easy to blend into the darkened streets, glistening with earlier rain and reflecting the scant street illumination. 

Gabriel tries to stretch his senses as far as they will go, but his range is barely half a mile each side, a small bubble of an area he can control. Hopefully he won't need more to deal with two god-wannabe monsters, one of which is barely more powerful than an average vampire.

Stalking through back streets is the best way to get their attention without any effort from him - they couldn't kill him if Gabriel laid down and allowed them to try, not while he's grace and they're flesh and malleable energy, no matter how much human squishyness Gabriel feels right now. 

Gabriel adjusts his grip on the swords, steps over a puddle. If he had stayed a little longer, he could have greeted his siblings properly. Aralim was overjoyed, the not-so-little fledgling, her grace like foaming edges of a sea. He wishes he could hug Ophaniel too, congratulate them for the high place they hold in the Host now, a bright ring of light to the other Cherubim.

Perhaps he regrets it just a bit, but he can't open himself to the searching minds of his siblings now. He pulled away the moment he flew off, and he can't just butt in to say hi. Even if Lucifer can't hear it.

He's five blocks away from Fenrir's corpse when he senses the two brothers approaching. They're slow, careful, and they must have forgotten how far Gabriel can See, otherwise they'd be running.

He rolls his shoulders and plants his feet firmly on the ground as they come around a corner, brandishing his wooden swords. Narfi snarls when he sees him, his rotting true form rippling under the skin of his disguise. Gabriel curls his lip at him.

Sleipnir creeps behind his brother, a lanky, handsome creature far more hidden than Narfi, shredded in protective spells, norse runes and an ugly suit. Then again, Gabriel is pretty certain that Sleipnir hadn't taken his equine form since his grandfather commanded it, finding it easier to go unnoticed as a human.

Narfi scowls. “Gabriel. You killed our brother.” Gabriel doesn't dignify the obvious with an answer, and simply twitches his weapons up in a 'come get me' gesture. An inhuman, resonating growl loiters in Narfi's throat, and he stalks towards him, producing a dagger from his jacket and looking sharply at Sleipnir, who advances from Gabriel's other side, then uncurls a whip. 

Well, Gabriel only has two physical hands, so he figures using his currently limited grace is worth it if he gets both of them. He unfurls his wings out, two of them, extending the ragged, neglected golden wings out and leaving them half open; coiled muscles ready to snap out. 

Sleipnir attacks first, lashing out with his whip and trying to catch on a sword, but Gabriel jumps out of the way and towards Narfi. He swings his sword towards his raised arm, forcing him to pull it back, and Narfi goes to punch him with his free hand instead. Gabriel doesn't have time to get a hit in, as Sleipnir already comes at him with the whip, which almost slashes across his back. 

Gabriel grunts, giving up on conventional and leaning to the left, twisting his body and slicing sharp primaries through Sleipnir's chest. The norse god's vessel freezes, his true form unraveling behind the skin, horse head gaping with its vantablack eyes as its shredded torso starts crumbling. The human form Sleipnir wore falls to the ground even as his essence disintegrates like burning paper, gone without an afterlife like the contrived being he was. 

His brother howls and rams into Gabriel, taking them both to the ground. Narfi presses his back to the pavement and lifts his dagger to stab Gabriel with it, and it won't kill him but he's not enthusiastic about the pain, so he kicks out and throws Narfi straight off. Gabriel huffs and jumps up, sword to Narfi's chest in two seconds flat. The pagan opens his mouth to say something, but Gabriel isn't in the mood for talking, just in the mood to get revenge, so he leans on the katana, sinking it into Narfi with barely the sound of tearing skin.

He steps back as Narfi lets out a strangled sound, and extracts his sword from between his ribs, watching as Narfi's form withers away beneath him.

He leaves the human-looking corpses right there, not bothering to clean up after his triple murder. Perhaps Loki will find them. Maybe the police will, and they'll conduct an investigation that won't bring results, especially since Sleipnir's body appears to just have keeled over and stopped working. Gabriel can't find it in himself to care.

It feels pointless.

This didn't really give him the satisfaction he wanted, barely brought some distraction from his old family. Well, his only family, because it's not like he could get another one. Norse gods were never family.

Gabriel takes flight, world blurring around him as he angles back to the hotel room he was in and soundlessly lands on the open balcony. He left the bedside lamp on, and it's casting a soft orange glow to the blue, moon-bathed palette. He turns to the sky and stares at the mostly clear darkness of it, observing the stars sprinkled over it.

The chill is nice, and he decides to take a short breather to give his grace more time before he goes after Loki, enjoying the slightly damp air, traces of city smoke and rain. He brings forward his wing and traces over a ragged primary - the result of both razing down Sleipnir and his time with Asmodeus. It's bent, and the barbs are worked over enough to make it useless for flight anyway, so Gabriel grips it and yanks it out, watching as the dull grace disintegrates into the air.

The city is as quiet as it gets, the very early morning hours successfully driving most people to bed. Gabriel turns his focus to the faint chatter the Host is making, his grace picking up the whispers of their shared frequency. He doesn't dare try and decipher the murmurs though, knowing the chain reaction that would set off. 

Gabriel grips the railing. 

As soon as the sun rises, he will go after Loki. The biggest traitor of them all. He bloody well hopes the asshat will have found out about his sons by then, will have felt some regret for crossing an archangel, will have gotten a reminder that Gabriel was still divine, was still far more dangerous than he let on. 

He hadn't thought the pagan god would betray him, regardless of how prone he became to the deed in the recent 2500 years, as the norse shaped him more into a trickster, a god of mischief. He's known Loki for so, so long. He's seen him as a young, inexperienced deity failing to meet the demands of his followers, trapped to die. He was there when Loki rose again, when he learned and he taught Gabriel in turn. The archangel existed before the pagan's children, and for the longest time, Loki was the only being he had on earth. Not family, but the closest thing to a friend. 

*

_“Your kind has killed many of mine,” the pagan deity states, pacing over the stone floor of his temple-like hollow, filled with the ghostly footprints of worshippers. The god isn't known as Loki yet, but he will be one day, many names in the future. “You are pretentious, because you came before us, and we are 'less' than man.”_

_“I aided you once,” Gabriel says again, mimicking Loki's rough, throaty dialect. He's learned how to do it in the many years he's aimlessly wandered Father's earth, and it comes easily him now._

_“I know.” Loki retorts, not unkindly. “But I am stating something important.” He takes a few slow steps towards the simple altar, tracing fingers over the matted top, old blood flaking. “I require you to swear an oath, for my conscience and trust, Gaḇrīʾēl.”_

_Gabriel blinks, tugs an unruly strand of his true vessel's hair away from his eyes. “What oath do you require?” There's not much he can promise, other than his help - but that should suffice for anyone. He is a being of Light, capable of far more than the young deity before him, his services should be a marvel to him._

_“You are your family's blood. You kill with your dangerous Light as they do.” Loki looks at him sharply. “You must forfeit your old ways. You will abandon their fighting and wars, and no harm shall come to me, or my brethren.”_

_Gabriel looks at Loki's bare feet, feeling another pang of bitter grief he can't seem to escape. “I will swear on this. I've never enjoyed my siblings' wars anyway.”_

_Loki nods in approval. His long, matted mane of hair falls over his shoulders, clad in animal skins and adorned with wooden and bone bibelots, courtesy of the tribe which brings him sacrifices. “That is good,” he says, and steps closer to the archangel to lay his hands upon his vessel's shoulders and ghost up his neck to his curls, his young face, and frowns._

_“You have a most strange form,” he tells him, and Gabriel doesn't answer. His true vessel was not meant to be born for many thousands of years yet, but he was here, and he doesn't dwell on the fact that only Father could have provided him with it. But perhaps Father isn't as angry as Gabriel might have thought when he ran._

_“You will take mine,” Loki decides, “And I will teach you to hide. You can leave your current self behind, and we can share my identity.”_

_Gabriel nods, bowing his head down in thanks and agreement. “I'm in your debt.”_

_Loki smirks and his hands drop from the archangel's shoulders. “I would say that my debt is repaid. You saved my life once, I am repaying the favor.”_

_Gabriel looks again at Loki, the violet and poison green of his magic beneath the skin of his vessel, looks at the hollow, shining with the faith of people and feeding into the pagan god's power. He could learn to wield it as well. He could store his Father's Light deep inside where nobody would see but his kin - though he has no intention of going back home now, too ashamed of his desertion and afraid of what he woud find now that Lucifer's mind is no longer part of the Host and Michael and Raphael have gone quiet._

_“I promise you.” He says, and Loki's lips twitch up into a satisfied smile_. 

*

As the sun peeks over the horizon and paints the sky orange, the Host screeches louder again, a demanding buzzing at the back of his skull. It's ridden with hope and unsatisfied need for answers, and Gabriel wonders if Lucifer is just now giving them to their siblings. 

He wonders briefly, again, what Lucifer thinks of him now, remembers how shattered he looked, how utterly out of sorts he was before Gabriel ran, before he shoves the thoughts aside along with the painful, needling feeling they come with. He drops the sword on the coffee table and clenches his fists. He won't shiv Loki with the sword. 

He'll smite him, like a bloody archangel. 

Gabriel marinates in his vengeful anger, letting it flow over his grace and paint it in deep red and dull white, overtaking the sad, lonely thoughts he doesn't have the energy to deal with. 

He takes off just as the streets start bustling with morning life, cleans up the room with as little grace as he can, even though his reserves can't really go down without serious work, self-replenishing and extensive as they are. 

Gabriel knows the kind of place Loki would hole up in, and he knows better than anyone how to track him down, simply by looking. Loki is familiar to a sickening degree, feels like something sticky and grainy that crawled into Gabriel's veins and didn't ever leave, the particular swirl of colorful energy that makes him up and makes Gabriel up, too, because he is Loki as much as a good forgery could be the original. 

He lets what Loki gifted him with resonate and pull, and he finds exactly what he was looking for. 

The penthouse suite is predictable, hackneyed, one in a hundred others exactly like it, because Loki likes them very particular and he always changes them to fit his tastes. It's luxurious, clean, bright, and it brings out images of hell and the cell Gabriel was given simply on principle, because Loki put him there and he stayed on earth and kept living as if Gabriel hadn't been there in the back of his mind for more than thirty five thousand years. It wasn't Gabriel's fault, what Lucifer did, and he _warned_ them. He carries no blame, and Loki punished him anyway. 

Loki waits for him, stands there as if holding a vigil, still as a statue. His true form, resembling his physical manifestation, is a howling storm of anger and vengeance and concealed sorrow, mirroring Gabriel's. He mirrors him in a very visible way as well, the archangel's true vessel made into a perfect copy of the pagan, his face set into a stony expression. Gabriel didn't mind the sameness before, but it makes him nauseous now. 

“Hello, Gabriel.” Loki says, low voice deceptively calm. He slowly tilts his head to the side, appraising the archangel. “You don't have my wooden sword,” he observes, as if stating something casual, drinking in anything he can gauge from the archangel while his magic rages against his skin. 

“No,” Gabriel answers lightly. He thinks of the sigils on the bag they put over his head, his already weakened state, the sedatives they jabbed him with, the warded cuffs and chains they locked him in. The words of revenge Loki hissed in his ear as the heat from a summoning flame scalded his feet. “Wanted to do this one old school.”

Loki sniffs, takes a step to his right in the spacious room. “Ah. With your... archangel powers.”

The pagan slowly moves to his right, casual steps full of tension, and Gabriel goes the other way, circling Loki. Keeps his grace coiled tightly in his limbs, crackling under the surface and eager for revenge. “This is payback,” he announces roughly, “for what you've put me through.”

“Oh, please,” Loki jeers, “you think you're some poor victim?” His magic snaps at the room, wine red and sporadic. His tone turns mocking. “Gabriel, with his deadbeat daddy and his mean older brothers. Who will help me? Who will save me?”

Gabriel scowls. “You shut your trap.” He doesn't say more, having heard enough jibes from a petty god living past his expiration date, and decides to rush him, get close enough to smite him without considerable effort. A wave of Loki's magic crashes into him, a thousand tiny hammers tapping into the layers of pagan magic Gabriel has, pushing back until he has to dig his heels into the floorboards to keep standing. 

The power working away at its twin cuts off abruptly, causing Gabriel to almost faceplant onto the floor, and Loki rams into him, flips him and throws him to the wall, Gabriel's skull hitting the paint job with a resounding crack. Loki doesn't touch him, he knows better, but he gets up into his dazed face and yells. “ _I_ DID! But _you_! You couldn't keep one promise!!” He grabs Gabriel by the lapels of his black leather jacket and sends him sprawling to the ground with a grunt of effort. 

Gabriel spits and picks himself up, straightening up to look at the pagan god, weakened grace burning in anger. Loki throws his hands up and the poison ivy of his power claws and scratches at the gifts he granted Gabriel, at the mask Loki made that covered everything Gabriel is. Gabriel cultivated it, built and added whatever Loki afforded him, and now he's trying to rip it apart from the inside. The purple flecks of it dance over Gabriel's eyes and he tries to push Loki away but it's hard, confusing. 

“But then you had the audacity to ask _me_ to help _you_ again?!” Loki's voice cuts through the haze, indignant and furious, rasping with the volume. Everything that Loki is, the calm that he tried to keep up, falls away. The god is a spitting, snarling mess of anger and vengeance and grief and he pours his power over Gabriel like he doesn't give a shit about how much it'll drain him, how much is wasted on trying to pin him, like it's a last ditch effort to make the archangel suffer, because he bloody well knows he can't win. 

“YOU THINK _I_ DESERVE TO DIE FOR YOUR SPINELESSNESS?!” He roars, “THAT MY _SONS_ DESERVE TO DIE?!”

Gabriel pushes through Loki's claws with a burst of grace, burning away at his inferior power easily once he can concentrate enough to do so, jumping from the ground and barreling straight into Loki. He sends the pagan to the ground and lands on his chest, manifests his wings with a thought and drops them behind him, keeping Loki's legs in place so he can grab hold of his arms. 

Loki's depleted energy sags and sputters out, giving up on him until the god is heaving ragged breaths under Gabriel's vessel. He rasps a laugh, his face curving into an exhausted, defeated grin. 

“You're done, Loki.” Gabriel snaps. “Time for the lights to go out.”

Loki squints up at him. “You'll smite me, heh?”

“I _am_ an archangel,” Gabriel smirks, showing teeth, tightens the hold of his grace and wings on Loki, pressing painfully into the legs of Loki's true form. Rubs his broken promise in the god's face. 

“Oh, please,” Loki scoffs, his head dropping down onto the floor with a soft thump. “Face it, old friend. You're a _joke_ ,” he spits. Gabriel narrows his eyes, squeezes tighter, but he doesn't get more out of Loki than a pained cough, laced with mocking laughter before he speaks again. “You're a failure. You live for pleasure, you stand for nothing! And in the end, that's exactly what you'll die for.”

Gabriel's mouth twitches between a grimace and a frown, and an unwelcome dark tint shutters over his Light, bleeds into the cracks already there. _He's right_ , it wispers, mocks. Gabriel forces himself to smirk, doesn't blink his eyes. “You first,” he says, hates how his voice shakes, goes higher, how Loki takes just a smidge of satisfaction from what his words had accomplished. 

Gabriel's grace surges through his hands and into Loki, burning with a light that would cleanse and destroy, rips through Loki's limbs to his chest and his head, liquefies his organs and fries his brainstem. Loki screams; a low, strangled sound through clenched teeth, saving his dignity while he dies alone, with only Gabriel to witness it, to cause it. 

Gabriel stumbles off of the smoldering corpse and stands up again, looks down at the dead body of his... mentor? Not really. Loki saw him as something naïve, malleable, almost childlike; but he is so much older than the pagan god. He looks away from the staring eye sockets, hears a drop of blood splatter on the tile. It's silent. 

He feels hollowed out, and the tears he wouldn't let fall down in here don't ever show themselves anyway. He walks to the elevator and takes off flying before he could step inside. 

In the last couple centuries, he created safe houses for himself, bases where he could hide away. Most of them on earth, a few of them outside this solar system - heavily warded places where even Michael couldn't find him. Gabriel doesn't know where to go to just think, without distractions, so he lets his wings take him to the nearest one. 

His landing lifts up a layer of dust, accumulated over years of untouched stagnation, and he waves it away with a flick of grace, more a cleaning spell than something consciously thought through. It's a cramped, but comfortable place full of earthy tones, deep inside of a mountain and surrounded by layers upon layers of carefully woven wardings, so Gabriel sags down into the nearest couch and breathes. 

It's done. The hellbent vengeful mindset he focused on only yesterday isn't needed anymore, and he's left staring at the polished, stone ceiling, trying to decide if it was worth it at all. If he was just being a dumb coward. 

He thinks about Loki as if it's safe to think about what he said now that he isn't there anymore and Gabriel is completely, utterly alone. 

He presses his fists against his eyes. 

Maybe Loki regretted ever having met Gabriel. Maybe he realized, when his involvement in Heaven brought the death of his father and three of his sons, that he never should have helped Gabriel. 

A spineless coward who just keeps running, away from responsibility and difficult decisions to alcohol and sex and petty trickery, refuses to grow up, can't do anything by himself. He's always been the young, needy sibling, even when Lucifer stopped being his sensible self. Except even Lucifer seems to be taking charge and proving himself helpful now, regardless of whether or not Sam's soul is the reason for it. 

Gabriel grunts his despair into the stale air. He shouldn't have escaped the moment it all got too hard for him. What was he doing except proving Loki right? It's not like Lucifer was going to stab him again, and the older archangel acknowledged what happened before Gabriel even had enough time to fully take in the situation. His siblings weren't shunning him, they were helping him recover his grace and all he did was grab the aid-kit and bailed. 

Gabriel feels like an ass on top of everything, even though he's been doing asshole stuff since he started pretending to be Loki. 

Maybe he should have given Lucifer a chance to at least explain everything a bit better, rather than giving him a cryptic 'I might not hate you forever' answer, getting upset and leaving, especially since clearly things have happened to his older brother that would require an essay to clear up. But just looking at him again was hard. 

He knows damn well Lucifer regrets it. He saw it today, he saw it six years ago, and he read it in the whispered plea he gave Gabriel. _Brother, don't make me do this._ If Lucifer wasn't actively trying not to see Gabriel's grace erupt in death, he would have seen it was a ruse, might have figured out the blade wasn't the real thing. So it might not have been cold blooded, but it still happened, and it doesn't make everything else Lucifer did any better. Gabriel's watched him tear younger siblings apart without blinking, without ever grieving them, he's seen him play with souls, take joy in spreading his corruption. Gabriel escaped to earth with the names of every murdered sibling etched on the backs of his eyelids. He missed them, he grieved every single one, and he couldn't witness another death.

But Lucifer _is_ sorry, and maybe it's not entirely his remorse, but it counts at least somewhat - it was the Mark that took Lucifer's empathy and kindness away, so it was something else that gave it back to him and Gabriel can't be unfair. Maybe he only feels regret now, but Lucifer's already served his sentence, has spent time in something that probably should have been atonement for longer than Gabriel can imagine being alone. He's already _been_ punished.

And it's not like Gabriel is innocent himself. He had the moral high ground in Heaven back during the uprising, but he's been twisting his original desire to bring justice into something much more violent.

Gabriel doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know what he wants. 

It would hurt to see Lucifer again, but he's offering family and desperate love and apologies, and Gabriel wants all of those. He doesn't want the fighting, the arguments, or fratricide in any form. He wants Father to show, wants to tell him off and yell, to demand an apology or an explanation for the last forty thousand years, but honestly he'd be happy just to see him again. 

He doesn't want things to stay the same. 

He doesn't want to be like Loki, or to have his life consist of random 'lessons', tricks, and lonely debauchery. Gabriel doesn't _like_ that about himself. He wants so badly to tell himself that he's nothing like Loki, that he hasn't lost himself in the pagan, even though he's all Gabriel sees when he looks into a mirror, not just literally. 

He wonders if he could go back and just be a brother, without the responsibility he isn't sure he's ready for, if he could see his siblings and just... move his baggage with Lucifer for later, slowly take it on. Maybe that wouldn't be cowardly. But he wants that way more than to go back to a solitary life where he constantly hides, constantly pretends he's someone he's not. 

Gabriel groans his hopelessness and stands up, because he knows what he has to do. 

No more stalling, or making himself miserable, or stagnating in a place when he doesn't even want to be there and there's an obvious solution staring him in the face. No more vengeful excuses. He's not running away anymore. 

Gabriel takes off with the strongest beat his wings can manage, back outside and out of the stifling confines of the wardings in a few milliseconds, before angling himself to the united states. A brief scan doesn't reveal the beacon of Lucifer's Light, and Gabriel has to resign to the fact that he'll speak to his brother in Heaven. His wings ache from his earlier flying, and he concentrates on getting back to his old home as fast as he can lest they give up on him.

He slips into the Veil with no problem, winging his way across and seeing Heaven clearly for the first time in ages. Unlike his disoriented state when Lucifer carried him in or his frantic flight away before, he can fully appreciate it this time, the infinite realm stretching before him, a massive wall like a membrane separating it from the blackness of the Veil, a stark contrast between the blinding blue-white grace. 

He glances down at the twinkling souls ferried towards it, looks away when curious reapers turn their faces up at him, too engrossed in their purpose to care about what goes on with Heaven's affairs. 

He passes through and into the welcoming, glorious warmth, Light shifting around him and revealing the layered nature of Heaven. Gabriel pulls his wings closer and dives down, dropping to the humanity's section where he can sense his siblings. He watches it from above, taking in the always-warping labyrinth Dad must have designed to keep the souls, much bigger than it was when he first hid away on earth. He can see it all from the Circle he's currently flying under, the elaborate structure and every sibling dwelling on it - brilliant Lights connected into the firmament of the Host, their grace trying to rope him closer, minds singing and chattering to one another. So many Voices. 

Gabriel focuses on Lucifer, a much bigger beacon, although cut off and alienated from the rest like a drop of oil in water, courtesy of the punishment he received. The older archangel's Light shifts from a deep indigo into a mess of greens and oranges, and Gabriel assumes the siblings around him pinged him about his arrival. 

Gabriel slowly circles lower, sinking into the infinite layer Humanity's heavens rest on and gracefully landing in a white hallway. Lucifer is there, standing twenty feet away outside a meeting room with a flock of angels, wearing an expression somewhere between remorseful mortification and euphoric hope. Gabriel just manages to see the glimmer of slate gray and white feathers before he hides them away from view, stirring curiosity about their different plumage, but Gabriel has other stuff to say. 

“You and I need to talk,” he announces, sounding far more sure than he feels. He glances behind at Jehoel and Dumah, their wide brown eyes full of surprise and hope. The latter seemed to be a theme everywhere, now. “Alone, if we can,” he adds, nodding at them. “This is just between me and Lucifer.”

Jehoel looks at Lucifer in question, and the archangel gives a slight nod. “Of course,” he says quietly, and Gabriel quickly spins around in place and starts walking, folding his wings as tightly as he can until his joints ache. 

He can hear Lucifer pick up the pace as he follows him, and swerves away from the rest of their siblings to find an empty hall and a free room. Their Voices prod at his mind with new bravery, and he can hear the questions they ask each other, their curiosity running like playful fingers over Gabriel's grace. _'Gabriel, you're back!_ ' Aralim's joyful melody goes, the first one to speak to him directly, and it promptly erases the hesitation his other brothers and sisters felt. Ophaniel's urgent greetings and inquiries about his return almost get drowned among the frantic voices of the many cherubim that contact him, and Gabriel feels a pang of bittersweet happiness hearing the members of his old divisions, letting a wave of his weakened grace touch them in turn. 

Still, he pushes them away, painting his Light with the distinct flavor of needing privacy, promising to be back very soon, and the chatter politely recedes, siblings stopping their flight or walk to where he's stalking the white hallways. 

After finding the first private, unoccupied room, he slips inside and waits a moment for Lucifer to walk in behind him, a silent figure following him like he expects to be yelled at. Probably does, even though Gabriel's grace only betrays his nervousness, not his anger. He's not _afraid_ of Lucifer.

“Hey,” Lucifer whispers at him, his grey eyes (didn't Sam have hazel eyes? Actually, didn't he have a different face? Gabriel hadn't paid much attention to his vessel before now.) opened wide and brow furrowed as if he's trying to imitate his old soulful puppy-eyes. Gabriel shifts in place and rubs at his arms.

“So, listen,” he starts, “I know I flew off really fast last time, but I... had some business to take care of, I guess.” No, no, terrible start. Gabriel finds what he wants to say and tries again. “I got overwhelmed, and seeing you again kind of hit me.” 

Lucifer's face falls immediately, grace swirls grey, the lines of his soul pulsing slower, copper and deep blue. Gabriel wrings his hands. “I'm going about this all wrong. I... I wanna try again. We should talk, and I'd like to see everyone.”

Lucifer blinks. “You want to start over?”

“I'd like to _try_. I want to move past what happened six years ago, and what happened during the rebellion, so we can...” Gabriel trails off, and Lucifer looks like a starving dog who was just thrown a bone. “Be brothers,” he finishes, expectant and searching for Gabriel's approval the way he rarely ever used to - that was the younger archangel's job.

Gabriel smiles, though. It sounds so nice. “Yeah. I haven't seen you in a good while.” He points over his shoulder with a thumb. “And thanks for saving my ass, by the way.”

Lucifer mimics his shaky smile, his grace turning into that soft pastel orange and pink that sings _Heylel_ like a balm. “Don't mention it. I'm... _really_ glad you came back.” The younger archangel winces, thinking back to Loki. “Well, I had an epiphany. I didn't want to go back to my old life. It was getting real stale.”

He waits for Lucifer to say something, watches him internally fumble for a while between relief and tender caution. Gabriel feels a pang of guilt for the sheer lack of anger or distress, how glad Lucifer is Gabriel's returned even though the younger was spitting at him a day ago while he was trying to take care of him. Granted, past actions play a very big role, but it's not like that's still blinding him to everything else, and Gabriel has never gotten away with saying something like that to his older siblings - maybe it was the remains of hero worship, or the fact that Lucifer did just as much raising as Father. It feels wrong for Lucifer to be vying for _Gabriel's_ approval.

“Um,” he starts awkwardly, “I meant it when I said I can forgive you. The other stuff I... didn't. I mean, I was angry, I didn't mean to say that your- your apology doesn't count. It does.”

Lucifer smiles brightly at him, and Gabriel thinks he might start crying. “Thank you.”

Gabriel lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, relaxes just a little bit. “Amazeballs. So, um,” he tries to go for an easy smile and gestures towards Lucifer's soul. “Why don't you tell me everything about how you and Sam are sharing more than headspace, and I'll go hug everyone?”

Lucifer straightens up, Light flowing looser, letting down his shields so that Gabriel can see the structure of his soul better. Knit pretty damn closely now that it's appropriate to stare, the soul Gabriel remembers well looking like someone melted copper and silver and poured it onto the cracked cement street until it filled all the cracks in blinding white grace. Gabriel wants to know what that feels like, honestly. “Yeah, of course. Come on,” Lucifer says lightly, opening the door into the bright hallway.

Gabriel struts out after him. “Coming, Luci,” he quips, and he tries not to keep the same distance as before, walking side by side and craning his neck up to look at him, the height being something Sam's vessel clearly kept. “I see you're still a giraffe.”

Lucifer snorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, finally someone who can read Lucifer the way he can read every other angel. I've never gotten to describe him that way before :>
> 
> If anyone wonders: Lucifer has a large range where he can see angels/souls/demons, but due to being disconnected he can't sense his siblings, share thoughts with them or talk to them like he used to.  
> Him and Gabriel see Heaven differently as the latter is still included in the Host as a united mind - he can navigate it even though he hasn't seen the new parts in a good while, while Lucifer has to follow others where they lead him - he's inside the labyrinth, while Gabriel is above it (:


	19. Force the curve upwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Dean yet - what happened after they made up will be explained more next chapter, which will be fully Dean pov

Sam watches as Gabriel converses with a flock of Cherubim, his grace vibrant as it reaches out, intertwining with his siblings'. He can't stop smiling every few seconds, and he's put off helping with healing in favor of leaning on the wall outside the infirmary, just observing the Host. 

It's no longer a hallway; the infirmary's turned into a huge room adjacent to a gathering sight, as big as a field with a ceiling fading into white light, enough space for angels to fly. Especially since duties, regardless of how they're trying to get Heaven running smoothly again, have been put on hold in favor of socializing and restoring each other. They haven't been monitoring souls or checking the status of personal heavens, or started restoring the upper regions angels were forced to abandon, but those weren't incredibly urgent. Lucifer doesn't mind at all, in fact he's wondering why his thoughts didn't go into this direction first, as Gabriel's would have.   
Then again, his mindset has never been as familial as the younger's, and he's not in tune with what his siblings need as much as what Heaven needs as a unit. Maybe Gabriel could bring that into the equation, now that he's here, he thinks, hopefully to stay. 

He convinced Gabriel to reunite with the others after giving him just a short explanation of Father sort-of-making him after reconciling with Amara, and a quick summary of what he's been doing in Heaven. He didn't want to keep Gabriel too long, and leaving out the parts with Dean was easier than dumping his other, old life on his younger brother as well. Besides, Gabriel yearned to reconnect with his old squad more than he wanted another emotional package, and Lucifer knew he needed to process. 

They've had enough of those, and Lucifer would love nothing more than to just work uphill without constant hurdles. 

He hasn't gone back to earth since early morning, America-wise, and he hopes Dean won't backtrack on the small progress they made last night before Lucifer dozed off and startled awake next day. He needed to return to Heaven right away, and he hoped to Dad Dean understood and didn't come to a worse conclusion once he needed to fly off. 

Jehoel wasn't as frantic as he expected, but his professional urgency made it clear that their mission was a bust, excluding Gabriel's rescue. The disappointment was concealed beneath the Gabe-hype, but Lucifer felt embarrassed by how he handled it. A good commander wouldn't have abandoned his entire flight in the throne room of hell surrounded by demons (although he did smite most of them on his way out) after killing their current regent and a horde of others, and not tell them something as important as a captured archangel's location. It would have been much easier and smoother if Lucifer could have told them over 'angel radio' but the rest lost verbal contact with him when he flew away. It caused frustration, but mostly panic until Jehoel started giving orders instead. 

Gabriel talks to a young angel with half-feathered wings the color of vermilion, eliciting a laugh. His grace is shining brighter now, baby blue and golden, and Lucifer turns around to go mind his business, feeling like he's intruding on Gabriel's family time by watching everything; and siblings keep glancing at him every couple minutes. 

He walks over to the list he posted over a week ago, scanning the names. Given the number of healers they have working in threes and the dozen angels he's personally helped, they have almost forty marked off with a bunch still in recovery, well on their way to being airborne once more. Nadiel adjusted the schedule for efficiency, so angels had more time in-between the two phases they could use as free time with others. 

As if sensing he was thinking of her, Nadiel strides over. “Hey,” she greets, wings twitching forward. Lucifer formed his early in the conversation with Gabriel to show him, and he extends one towards her as a welcome, making sure they don't touch. 

She tilts her head at him, lips quirking up in a smile. “You seem happy. In your wistful, overly pensive way I mean.”

He blinks. “I guess, a lot is happening. There's a lot to think about.”

Nadiel gazes at him for a few moments, her already joyful Light gleaming with lime green mischief before she simply points at him. “You're projecting everywhere.”

Sam freezes in embarrassed mortification. “ _Oh_. I did it for Gabriel earlier, I didn't notice...” he starts pulling the strands of himself closer, trying to get his rampant feelings under control. Dammit, every angel here had to have seen right through him. 

“No, don't!” Nadiel laughs. “It's great for your public image! Seriously, it's reassuring. Makes you less...”

Sam raises an eyebrow, pulls the last of his Light behind barriers. No way is anyone reading him, but he's glad there's been no negative reactions. “Scary?” 

“Intimidating?” Nadiel suggests. “You kind of were when you first got back here, and with how you hide yourself it was easy to assume you were secretive.”

Sam thinks to himself before shrugging. “Huh. Well, have no fears, I'm far too uncertain all the time to scheme anything evil.”

Nadiel waves her hand away in the air, snorts. “Knew that already. We were trying to decide whether we should leave you oblivious or tell you, what with everyone gossiping like their lives depend on it.”

Sam narrows his eyes, smiling a little awkwardly. “So you decided to have mercy on me?”

Nadiel grins ruefully and shrugs, before she turns to the side to lean on the wall with crossed arms. Her space blue wings shudder in the slightly awkward position, the pale, speckled grey feathers on their undersides pressing against her biceps when they unfold until she's comfortable. It gives her a good view of the entire infirmary though, so Sam decides to copy her.

“This is going great,” Nadiel suddenly sighs after a minute of silence while they both observe their siblings. He hums in agreement, and feels her eyes glance at him while he watches the healers at work. “It likely wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come here,” she says quietly. “You're doing a really good thing.” 

He turns his head and looks down at her, feeling touched by her words even though she might not have said it if he hadn't been projecting his emotions earlier. “Thank you,” he answers, and then, because he feels the fuzziest he's ever felt, he decides he'd like to return the compliment. “You've done great too. The organizing and your work with others. Raphael couldn't have done better,” he adds quietly. “You remind me of her a lot.”

It's true - she really does, her responsibility and hidden, gentle sense of humor he suspects might have a mischievous streak buried somewhere, her caring nature, even the owlish shape of her wings. Nadiel blinks at him and her grace spills over with so much grief he almost chokes up and jumps away from her. “O-oh- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- we had good vibes going here and I said something really-”

“It's okay,” Nadiel rushes, and shit he didn't know this would hit her like this, that she carries this much unmourned loss with her. “It means so much to me. She was my mentor, before,” Nadiel explains, and reaches up to wipe at her left eye. She lets out a half laugh. “Raphael was my biggest idol. I've been trying to be just like her my entire life.”

Sam doesn't know what to do, but he wants her to stop feeling sad, even though her words are setting off so many waterworks. Raphi. “W-well you are,” he stumbles, tries to find a truth to give her that would comfort her. “She would be proud of you.” He settles on, and he doesn't expect his voice to crack but it does.

Nadiel gives him a smile, far brighter than he would expect. “Thank you, brother.”

He falls quiet and leans back on the wall with her, and her grace swirls and slows into a melancholic, calm state, almost content to just stand here and think sad and happy thoughts about dead siblings and the ones they're trying to help. 

Sam hopes he's good enough company to stand quietly with, but he doesn't want to break down right now - if he grieves, he weeps doing it and this isn't the time. He carefully wraps it all up and stores it away for later.

They stay like that for a while until Nadiel looks over Sam's shoulder and pushes herself upright. Lucifer turns around, watching as Gabriel walks over, wings hidden but grace shining brighter. He feels like he's drinking in the sight of him there every time he sees him, just the image of him making him feel like he's floating, relieved and overjoyed and it's all tinted with guilt hanging at the back of his brain.

Gabriel joins them, and Lucifer stops dissecting the space between them and how close they're standing because he keeps wandering whether or not Gabriel is wary of him. 

“Hello, Gabriel,” their sister says warmly, with that undertone of Worried Doctor. Lucifer can see his brother's grace reach out towards Nadiel just enough to reassure her and show off his recovering grace before he looks at Lucifer. “I hope you didn't think you were off the hook before, bro. I still need to pepper you with questions,” he quips. 

“'Course,” Lucifer responds, stunned by the casualness, and Nadiel points behind her with her thumb. “I should sneak off. You two have bonding time.”

Gabriel watches her approach a half-conscious sibling and turns around, grace spinning into a darker gold, unsure of where to start. Lucifer jerks his head towards the venue outside. “How did it go?”

“Great,” Gabriel says simply. “I thought there'd be people pissed at me, but everyone is just... starting again. It's like a negativity spring cleaning, but everyone is treating it like a new era.”

“Oh, wow.” Lucifer wasn't aware of it to this extent. He doesn't really get deeper insight, but he has been enjoying the new positivity and non-hostile ambience, even though the groups that have started forming again are of a similar mindset, were perhaps on the same side during the civil war. “That's neat,” he says lamely. 

Gabriel's eyebrow twitches upwards, and he leans closer to the list to touch the names and turn around a page. Then he looks at Lucifer, and at the infirmary, and all that he can hear outside. “You've, uh... really made a U-turn, huh.”

“I guess. But honestly,” Sam shrugs, cringes. “All this has just been a string of, uh, spur of the moment decisions. I'm just going along with the flow and I have no plans. Which isn't how I usually do things, so I hope I can... get it together soon.”

Gabriel cocks an eyebrow. “That _is_ new for you. Not being a step ahead, I mean.”

“I'm just a bit out of sorts,” Sam answers, tripping over what his response should be. Gabriel shifts so he's turned towards him. “Can you give me deets?”

“Huh?”

“Like, elaborate,” Gabriel answers awkwardly. “I want to know more about it. Because you seem pretty...” he searches for words, looks his brother's Light over. “Um. Fluctuant. Vacillating, maybe.”

Lucifer blinks. “I- I know. My mind is kinda messy right now. My thoughts are all over the place, and I have, uh...” he fumbles. “Feelings. About...”

His face screws up into something constipated and embarrassed, and Gabriel slowly nods. “That seems understandable,” he comments, sounding distinctly the way he does when he's imitating Michael's formality, which only used to happen when he felt lost. 

“Sorry,” Lucifer says, for no particular reason. “I've never put that into a sentence, but you can see it anyway.”

“Yeah, but conversation is different.”

“If you say so,” Sam supposes, but honestly he'd rather Gabriel see his more... personal emotions as something unquestionable, voiceless. Besides, putting it into words would be so hard. It would make it all more real, and Lucifer isn't ready for it. Gabriel picks up on his train of thought. “Hey, if you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine. You don't have to, since, you know,” He taps his foot lightly against the floor. “I'll get to re-know you anyway if I'll be staying.”

Lucifer smiles, and his sight slips through Gabriel's vessel again and to his grace, watching the play of aquamarine and green. Specks of fever-bright yellow dance behind his eyes as he notices it, and he looks away.

“That's great,” Lucifer comments softly. “I've missed you.”

It feels almost strange to say it so casually, especially this honestly, not when he's clear-headed and doesn't feel distressed to the point that saying vulnerable sentences doesn't seem weird. It's an attempt at affection, and Gabriel's Light twists between bittersweet happiness and hesitation. Not ready, then, but that's understandable and expected and he can only berate himself for saying something too fast.

Gabriel sighs, worries his bottom lip while he surveys the infirmary again. “It's good that you're better. You seem better.” He looks to the floor, and his previous joy covers something self-conscious like a blanket. “More open, less angry also.”

Lucifer frowns. “I... _was_ angry. A lot.” He was, wasn't he? Just a few weeks ago, he was angry at everything all the time. He yelled, he fought Dean and Cas, he snapped at them. But it's not nearly as bad anymore. He doesn't feel that constant pressure, he's not focused on how his anger is always getting stowed away. He's come to terms with the fact that he feels remorse and wants to do something about it, he's _done_ something about it. 

He's been doing good things, dammit, and he feels _better_. He's still sad, still uncertain, and he'd love to punch Father in the face, but he's not spinning in circles around that fact. Taking roundabout and direct care of his family was a priority.

He's experienced emotional 'growth' somewhere along the line and hasn't realized it.

“Uh,” Gabriel interrupts. “Did you just have an epiphany or something? Your thoughts went all...” He makes an explosion hand gesture, followed by a wave upwards.

“Yes,” Lucifer answers awkwardly. “I get those. Usually every few days or when someone says something that ticks it off, but I had like five hundred in a row the first week.”

Gabriel looks at him. “Oh-kay. That's probably logical, too.”

Lucifer just makes a noise of agreement and settles into the relative silence as they watch the space around them. The older brother follows Zarall with his gaze, the healer who was present at the first meeting but hadn't said much. The healers had been a priority when it came to restoring angels, and his wings are folded, half-ethereal against his vessel. They're a pale, speckled green, shining as if somebody had diligently preened them, mantling protectively towards the malakhim angel he's helping.

When he observed Zarall back then, he was colder, skeptical, a cloud of festered doubt and wariness having shut away the older brother in him. Now, he seemed more open, the inherent kindness of being one of Raphael's poking through again.

Gabriel clears his throat. “Hey, I'm gonna be right back. I just need a sec to do something.”

“Huh?” Lucifer frowns slightly, confused. Gabriel shuffles in place, and his hand reaches up to rake through his hair, briefly clutching at it. “I need to do something. I already sent out that I'll be back in a bit, so don't panic or anything.”

Lucifer looks over his grace, nodding even though it's not like his younger brother needs approval to go wherever he wishes. But this seems important to him, Gabriel's grace resolute and determined. “Sure.” 

Gabriel just quirks a hurried smile and slinks off, making his way to one of the hallways breaching off the main area before he forms his wings, still bedraggled. A few siblings send him looks, but nobody is surprised when his presence pulls away from Heaven.

Lucifer releases a breath and decides to make himself useful by making his way to one of the comfortable, round infirmary beds - it's clear that the mattress idea itself was picked up from humanity, but they're low to the ground and shaped to accommodate a larger (winged) shape. He kneels down beside a sister. “Hi, Liwet,” he greets the intelligence angel, watching her shy, anticipating smile when she looks at him.

He gestures to her wings, at raw pink skin over the recontructed tendons. “C'mon, turn around and let's work on those.”

*

He's already sufficiently aided his sister by the time Gabriel's grace starts nearing Heaven through the Veil, two hours later. Lucifer stands up when he feels his grace prod, his brother's mind reaching out to him. Gabriel doesn't use words, instead choosing to project his nervousness and a question, beckoning Lucifer to come join him.

He strides in the direction it's tugging him, towards one of the emptier hallways and to one of the side offices that must have served as a checkpoint for angels monitoring the human heavens. He's worried, but Gabriel doesn't seem distressed or hurt in any way, so he opens the door and steps in.

Gabriel is leaning backwards on one of the tables, wings hidden away and arms crossed in front of him, but none of that stuns him. It's the fact that Gabriel is wearing a different vessel.

“Who's that?” He blurts in surprise, then immediately shuts his mouth. Gabriel presses his lips together. “My True vessel. Just... without the Loki disguise. I went to get it off.”

Ah, so it is the same vessel - although that should have been obvious to him when he saw the intricate patterns tailored to Gabriel's grace, fitting him perfectly.

Lucifer steps closer, curiously looking him over. The man containing the younger archangel - or rather his empty body, as the soul is just as absent as it was before - is rather young, perhaps in his late teens, but Lucifer doesn't pride himself on judging ages perfectly. He has a boyish, young visage, speckled with countless freckles, dusting over his face and his shoulders where they're visible beneath his shirt. His hair is a light brown mess of curls, framing his face and ending at the nape of his neck; although his round eyes are still the shade of amber they were before.

Gabriel stands up straighter, his height about the same as it was when he was posing as a pagan, lanky in build. Lucifer doesn't really know what to say; commenting on angel vessels isn't really a thing, as they're just a tool for angels to use, and they usually try to get a body that looks good, fits their gender preferences if they have them, but is strong enough to hold them; it's just a practical choice. But it's different for archangels - they only have one suitable vessel, and Father made sure that the one they would get would fit them, their personality and their true form.

“Who was he?” He asks instead, trying to be respectful while sating his curiosity. Gabriel sighs, his voice sounding younger. “His name was Arnis, a norse kid. No parents or home, I found him pretty soon after I got to Earth, a few years before I came to Loki.”

Lucifer frowns. That doesn't sound right - the rebellion happened roughly forty thousand years ago. A light skinned, outrageously freckled boy with golden-streaked curls wouldn't have been born back then. Besides, Gabriel's True vessel wasn't scheduled to exist for millennia yet. 

“I know,” Gabriel interjects, catching his thoughts. “I'm sure we can blame it on Dad. I just assumed he wasn't as mad about me booking it as I thought.”

Lucifer slowly nods, trying not to let his mind focus on Dad's motives in this. All in all, the vessel suits Gabriel very well, seeming playful and innocent in the way he remembers the youngest archangel before the Fall. He doesn't know all about what Gabriel did in his time on Earth, or how he acted, but Father didn't take that into account when they were designing them.

“When did you let his soul go?” He asks. Gabriel shifts in discomfort. “A year after I possessed him. We were trying a... friendship, at first, but it wouldn't have worked out. We would have had to share control, he was overwhelmed all the time, and I couldn't pretend to be a pagan god with a human soul hanging around. He's somewhere in Heaven.”

Lucifer nods and steps closer, thoughtfully mapping out his face for a moment. “You're making a lot of big decisions in a short time span,” he observes.

Gabriel grins, displaying a dimple in one of his cheeks, making Lucifer wonder if Gabriel didn't just list every trait imaginable when he was deciding on a look with their Father. It wouldn't surprise him if he had. “Just following your example, bro.” He suddenly turns serious and rubs his arms with his palms. “And, actually... Well, I had an epiphany, too. While I was alone.”

Lucifer furrows his brow, seeing that dark, self flagellating emotion sneak its way into Gabriel's grace and paint it gray. “About what?” He doesn't want to force Gabriel to share if he doesn't want to, especially if the latter needs more time, but Gabriel takes a deep breath and... opens up.

“I went after Loki and his sons while I was gone,” he tells him, “And me and Loki had a convo. He pointed out some stuff.” He sighs through his nose and turns away, giving Lucifer his profile instead. “I realized you're not the only asshole. Hell, you're not even an asshole anymore! You're initiating some serious self-improvement here, and you were locked into a Cage for millennia, so we can't actually blame you if you want revenge. And I- I faked my death and I did the exact same thing I've always done. I ran, and I-”

Gabriel growls, throws his hand out as if he's indicating at something. “I filled my life with this crap. With sex and booze and games, and I just put you all on the back burner. I'm _exactly_ like Loki. I'm just as shallow and disloyal. And I don't want to be him anymore,” He snaps, not in anger at Lucifer but himself, his earlier defenses and happiness at seeing his siblings falling away to his sadness and shame.

Lucifer steps forward, wings drooping in worry, hoping he can offer comfort of some sort, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder and praying he's not breaching a line by touching him. “Gabriel, you're far more than that. You're nothing like Loki, and you're especially not shallow-”

Gabriel brushes him off and glares at him with teary eyes. “No. No, see? I don't want a pep talk. I don't want you to sugarcoat my flaws here, Luci, because it's not gonna make me feel better.” He swallows. “What I want is to actually do something. Improve. Let me work on myself. _Then_ you can give me support and tell me how great I am, when it's actually true.”

He wants so badly to hug him, wrap his wings around him and smother him with gentle grace, but Gabriel doesn't want that yet, doesn't want to share comfort after he's given him his hurt, and Lucifer wants to respect that, he really does, so he just settles on brushing his grace lightly against Gabriel, like a chance at contact if Gabriel only wants it but doesn't force it on him. “Okay,” he says softly. 

Gabriel sniffles and wipes at his eyes with a sleeve. “Ah, sorry. I overshared.”

“No, it's okay,” Lucifer says immediately. “It's good.” Gabriel can't think he's being a burden, especially not a failure. He's not putting more pressure on him, and he shouldn't believe it.

“You're officially leaving Loki behind, then?” He asks quietly, going for gentle. Gabriel nods, tries to smooth the unruly mop of his hair down, not that it does anything. “Yep.”

Then he grins at him, his negative emotions sinking down until they're muted. “My mug isn't the only one we should talk about, though.” He points directly at LuciferSam's face. “What happened, Samshine?”

“Uhm...” The older fumbles, glances down at himself. “I don't really know? It just happened.”

Gabriel hesitates for exactly one second before initiating a face grab to simply pull Lucifer's head closer down and staring straight at him. The older brother oomphs in surprise, but other than going wide-eyed he's just bewildered. “It's pointier,” Gabriel observes, and Lucifer blinks at the mischievous glint in his eyes. “And, what's that word, androgynous? Yeah,” he continues, a grin pulling at his lips. “Your eyes are definitely different too.”

“Um,” Lucifer starts, but Gabriel interrupts him by lightly poking him below an eye with an index finger. “You still have the beauty marks though. I remember these for sure.”

Lucifer narrows his eyes at him, more in playful awkwardness than being offended, although he's bent down at a weird angle with his top pair of wings open at half mast for balance. He goes for a smirk. “Anything else you can point out, genius?”

Gabriel snorts and pats down the sides of his smooth, pale cheeks. “Your goth potential. In conclusion, thou looketh like a typical anime villain.”

Lucifer laughs out loud and pushes off his hands, then ruffles Gabriel's curls into a bigger mess before Gabriel _arghhs_ and slaps him away. “Daww, it's so soft!” Lucifer guffaws.

“Oh, I know,” Gabriel deadpans in faux haughtiness, finding a witty answer without ever coming close to embarrassment as he smooths his hair into some semblance of order again. He steps through the doors, gesturing for Lucifer to come with so they can return to the others. He nods towards Lucifer's folded wings. “And that's because of your soul I take it?”

Lucifer shifts a bit, more uncomfortable with attention on the feathered limbs than on his vessel, probably the reason why Gabriel hadn't mentioned them since he saw them first. “Yep.”

Gabriel lifts his eyebrows at him while they slowly stroll down the hallway. “You don't like 'em.”

“They're not pretty.”

Gabriel scoffs, but he can see that the younger isn't being derogatory, just keeping the conversation light. “Puh-lease, you're much less boring with actual color mixed in. And they'd look much better if you took care of them.”

Lucifer sighs again, pulls one of the wings forward by the wrist. “Maybe, but that 'color' is... _grey_. And some brown and beige. If only it were, I dunno, blue and golden, or something dignified.”

Gabriel snorts. “That's _my_ Light's palette, man.”

“True.” Lucifer concedes. “Maybe silver, then, I had some of that before. Or some of the blue from my soul could have been more prominent, instead of the drab tones.”

It's not as if his soul only consisted of warm earthy tones - it was an elaborate menagerie of blue, turquoise and silver as well, even though his ability to gather knowledge and think analytically was the part of him that suffered the most in the Cage, traits that wouldn't hold up against isolation well. But the ones that affected his grace the most were the warmest shades of personality, something he refuses to look at too closely. It's a source of unanswered questions for him, but only Dad could provide those.

“I can still see that blue, you know,” Gabriel remarks, “In the lines of it. It's not gone.”

Sam gives him a warm, somewhat brittle smile. “Thanks, Bri.”

“No problem,” Gabriel answers, his tone turning a bit strained at the old nickname, turning forward and letting the conversation stop just as they return to the source of the action again. He walks off then, probably needing to think, and Lucifer heads back towards the healer hole.

To his surprise, he sees Castiel's grace around a corner, right before he beholds his vessel as well. “I thought you'd be with Dean,” he says.

Castiel shifts his wings closer in a menagerie of stressful feelings that coalesce into general discomfort. “I will.” He doesn't offer more than that, and Sam knows how difficult facing Dean is; but those two have a forgiving relationship on a level he doesn't understand all the way, and pushing Castiel to go immediately would be hypocritical. They'll be fine, they've gotten through everything.

“Did you talk with Dean?” Castiel asks him. 

“Yeah. I yelled at him and he punched me a few times.” Sam nods, continuing when he sees Castiel's eyebrows dropping. “But then we hugged and, uh, all was well.” He finishes.

Castiel tilts his head at him. “I... hope things will be better in the future. Just don't stay here for too long at a time,” he suggests. Sam just gives back a half-nod of confirmation and waits a few awkward seconds before coughing. “So what have you been doing?” He asks. 

Castiel looks towards the end of the infirmary, relaxing now that the topic of Dean's been left behind temporarily. “Lailah has been instructing me. I've joined a team of three and we work together.”

Lucifer looks to where the seraph indicated, and searches out Lailah's grace instead. He helped heal her wings personally, and he catches sight of her speckled beige and brown plumage with no difficulty. He hums to Castiel. “I'll come see.”

The younger angel blinks, his grace taking on a greenish hue, surprised and slightly bothered by the idea, but he just nods and starts walking back to what could technically be described as his current workplace. The two healers at the bed aren't expending their grace right now, and Akriel, an angel possessing a middle aged, spindly man, goes wide eyed when Castiel brings Lucifer over.

“Hey, just wanted to see how you were doing,” Lucifer says when it's clear the others are thinking of this as either an evaluation or him taking over the patient. He decides to gracefully sit down on the edge of the bed before they stand up for him. He looks at Lailah. “How's Castiel's... mentorship?”

Lailah glances at Castiel for a moment before answering. “Well, he lacks skill, especially the precision we need for wings. He's a seraph, so he's not built for it either, but he's been helping by offering his more extensive energy reserves.”

So Castiel is providing additional power rather than complicated grace work, which is smart because Castiel wouldn't know what to do with a flayed wing in front of him, even if Lailah taught him some basic wound patching. Lucifer's honestly still skeptical over his choice to train as a healer, especially because it wasn't his original purpose and shouldn't hold any interest, but his grace looks like somebody lifted a weight off his shoulders, so he won't voice it.

“Cool. If there's any opportunities, you can show him more complex stuff, but until we can pay attention to our actual forms it's more efficient if he continues like this,” Lucifer comments, “I'm sure there's a lot to be done in that area.”

Lailah nods, her grace swirling white with anxiety and anticipation. “We can't know as well as we'd like. We can estimate how much damage an angel's grace carries, but we can't form without detaching completely. Nadiel and Dumah judged that we should take care of the worst injuries first, and we can move on later.”

Lucifer just nods along, trusting the experts on this to work out a long-term plan. He knows basic healing of course, can do it better than Michael, but there's never been a need for him to delve into serious mutilations, grace corruption or nasty stuff that might befall a lesser angel if they survived a fight with something like a leviathan. It's probably best to let them do their jobs and deal with pressing matters he can actually contribute to in greater detail, like Hell's nonexistent bureaucracy and delegation of duties after this blows over.

He lets them work on their sibling in peace and walks out, deciding to brainstorm with the others on whatever urgent matter they picked to deal with first. Before he goes, he only gently elbows Cas to let him know Dean won't wait forever.

He checks on Gabriel too, seeing him in conversation with Elim, and loiters for a few minutes just to gaze at them, until Gabriel turns around and stares back at him suspiciously, pursing his lips. Lucifer hears him mutter, “ _creep_ ,” over the room and grins before spinning around and strolling away.

* * *

[Sam-Lucifer and Gabriel sketch](https://sta.sh/0cnocnw1vhm) \- so you can imagine what their faces look like :>

And [this ](https://sta.sh/08ljsutr44d)is the official ref sheet for Sam that I posted on chapter 9, if you missed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I just wrote the first genuinely positive, albeit angsty chapter and feel weird about it. Like, if they're not suffering then I'm missing something? But on the other hand I just want them to cuddle and preen each other already. Ugh, the struggle 
> 
> Throwback to ch14, Acheliah&Zarall were the two background healers. And in the previous one, Gabriel's true vessel was already hinted at (although I love Richard Speight, he's a great actor and a cool dude). He still has the same eyes, because I couldn't not keep them :'>


	20. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a laid back dialogue chapter to swim in some relative normalcy.  
> /Title: Psalm 16:9/

The library is relatively quiet, filled with the smell of books and whatever that other smell is libraries have that, combined with the carpet soaking up all the noises, makes for a calming, soft atmosphere.

Dean rubs his eyes and edits his search again. He's grateful that all the newspapers from the past have been digitized, but his eyes weren't made to handle zooming in and scanning small text these photos have, and the monitor is trying to convince him he needs reading glasses.

He opens the St. Louis Post-Dispatch pages from March, 1992 and skims through the documented headlines. He's sure the murder would have made it to the newspaper, he just needs to find the right date after it happened. Dean's hit the unfortunate block that happens sometimes on hunts; specifically ghost hunts stemming from murders that haven't been relevant in years, which is that the people he could have asked about the murder are either dead or have moved away after the tragic event took place. So he's stuck researching, because he needs to rifle through legal, public info before he can try to get at a police file.

As far as he knows, it's a haunted apartment - every person who's moved in so far has died in it, and the latest death was gruesome enough for Dean to catch. He looked into it because there was no sign of forced entry or any evidence left behind by the 'invisible killer' and the police were stumped. A quick look into the building itself confirmed its dark history of tenants. Not all deaths were obvious murders, the majority of people died by getting pushed off stairs, by electrocuting themselves in some way, or just slipping in the bathtub at the right angle and cracking their skull. Something a ghost, traumatized by their death and still too weak to tear people apart would easily be able to do. 

A flutter of wings makes him jump in his chair and ram his thigh into the table's edge, but he stifles the grunt. He kinda hopes it's Sam; whatever this new understanding they have is it needs more civilised talking, and they avoided mentioning Heaven yesterday - he just got some brief news on Cas and heard some vaguely familiar names. But Sam sat on the extra bed to talk, and proceeded to conk out after fifteen minutes of slowly lowering down into more comfortable positions. Dean hopes angels can't tell when somebody's watching them while they're sleeping, because Dean might have been patrolling the room and intermittently staring at his face the way Cas did when they first met him. He did get a tiny bit of a kick in the morning though, when Sam had the single most covertly mortified and confused reaction to sleeping in Dean's ever seen.

“Hello, Dean,” Comes Cas' voice, and Dean stumbles to his legs and turns around. “Cas!” He exclaims, quietly, since this _is_ a library. “Haven't seen you in days.”

Castiel steps closer and puts on his apologetic expression. “Yes, I was busy assisting my siblings. What are you doing?” He asks, glancing behind Dean at the screen.

“Possible ghost hunt,” Dean explains quickly, “There was a woman murdered twenty years ago, and unless this is a real creepy coincidence, she's been making sure all the tenants die.” And she might not even have a complex motive or anything - there was nobody convicted, the murderer wasn't punished, so there's a good chance she's just lashing out about her violent end and the injustice of it. Dammit, it's one of those cases that doesn't have a pretty bow to tie it all together, Dean thinks sourly.

“Well, if you need any help,” Cas says, “You can ask me or Sam, I know he'd be happy to help.”

Dean nods, and then quickly turns serious. “I heard Gabriel's back, but Sam didn't want to talk about it. Can you tell me what's up with that?”

“Well,” Cas starts, and walks around to sit on the chair beside Dean so they can both sit and talk quietly. “A while ago Sam and a flight of angels flew to Hell. Demons have been responsible for too many deaths, and they've been causing too much trouble, so the leadership team decided to cut hell off from earth so that the number of their residents here would return to what it was before the apocalypse.”

Dean blinks. 'Sam led a flight of angels' sounds strange, and he can see that Cas needed to consciously use his human name, so he tries not to think about it too much. The more important thing is that _he went to hell_ , and Dean didn't know.

“Oh,” he says, “That's a good thing. Less demons, that's good. So what happened?”

Cas makes a very mild grimace, the very bottom of his expression spectrum in casual conversation. “They went in to demand an audience with Hell's current regent. It was a yellow-eyed prince, Asmodeus.”

Dean lifts his hands up to stop him when his heart almost gives out. “Wait, back up, right now. A _yellow-eyed_ demon? There was more than one!?”

Cas opens his mouth, panicked like this is something he really shouldn't have told Dean about. “Er, yes. There were four princes created, but there's only two left, now.”

Dean slaps the table, his brain backtracking. “Where are they?! How did I not know about it?!” Cas squirms in his chair. “We don't know. They haven't been seen in a very long time, the only active prince was Azazel.”

Dean's breathing speeds up and he tries to calm it. There were four - _Four_ of them, and they needed twenty years just to catch and kill _one_. 

“Asmodeus is dead, Dean,” Cas hurries, “He attempted to kill them, so Sam smote him. But he found out that he held Gabriel captive and broke him out. Jehoel mentioned Sam might have killed over a thousand demons in passing.”

Dean tries to process it, falling quiet while Cas sits there like a statue, like he's waiting for Dean to gut him. Or for him to yell. 

He knows Lucifer sent Azazel - now he knows that he had four. He doesn't know whether he's the one who made them or not, and the question burns on his tongue. But he likely won't like what he finds, and it'll end in a fight or a bad mood, and given how much Cas is shrinking he doesn't want to get into the subject either.

Dean takes a slow, deep breath and drags both hands over his face. “S'okay, I'll talk to him,” he mumbles quietly. “Not yet, and we'll be calm, we'll process.” 

He's not going to freak out and start another bout of avoidance and silent hate. Dean can assume that _Sam_ didn't get into detail about it because he knew it would upset him and Dean might lash out - he wanted to avoid getting hurt. But that's okay, because Dean is done with fighting and irrationality; they'll handle it like mature people, work through it, and because it's not Sam's fault Dean won't hold it against him. What Lucifer did is something that Sam cannot control, and it's in the past, and what matters is the future. 

Dean repeats all that again in his head until it sinks in.

Castiel's already pointed out and circled the fact that Sam wasted Yellow Eyes 2.0 and 'killed over a thousand demons in passing' and then rescued the trickster archangel. Because while Lucifer isn't a saint, he cares a lot about his angelic family and he's always hated demons more than humans, and now he's trying to get the demons locked in hell. And that's a good thing, and Dean thinks of how that would be considered a heroic thing to do, like how Sam's already tried that once. And if it was somebody other than Lucifer, Dean would buy them a beer instead of be weirded out. And he'd definitely help Sam do something like that, and it is Sam, and he's doing something pretty spectacular. 

He looks at Cas. “That's good to know. But he said Gabriel took off pretty quick. Where is he?”

Cas relaxes, a minuscule drop of his shoulders. “He returned back to Heaven. He's been reconnecting with siblings since.”

“Oh. That's great... did he and Lucifer hash it out?” Dean asks awkwardly.

“It looks like it. They talked in private.” Cas says slowly.

Huh. Dean doesn't know how to feel about SamLucifer having an improving relationship with somebody obviously important to him, who Dean barely knows. The only one so far has been Cas, and that's way different.

“Okay... I'll, uh, probably hear more about it.” Dean says, “Since me and Sam are on a talking basis again.”

Cas nods. “I know. I'm...” He pauses. “Really glad you are. You and Sam have been a constant for me these past years, and you both mean a lot to me. I don't want you to hate each other.”

Dean's lips thin into a line. “I'm sorry about that.”

The angel just gives a small shrug and points to the screen behind him, still displaying the old newspaper. “Would you like me to help you with that? We can work whatever it is together.”

Dean turns around and looks at the monitor. “Uh, it's a ghost hunt.”

Cas looks on seriously and sits closer to him. “Well then, tell me what this ghost has done.” Dean smiles at the gravelly way he said it, regardless of how many things Cas says the same way, and starts explaining what he knows for now.

*

Sam flies in when they're already back in Dean's motel room, lands right in the middle of it, and to Dean's credit he doesn't get startled by it. “Hey,” Dean greets lightly, glances outside at the purplish evening sky. “I didn't think you'd be back so soon.”

“I didn't either,” Sam answers, and runs his fingers through his windswept hair (which is both logical and not) to smooth it into order. “There's a lot we have to do, but I wanted to spend time down here. Besides, I said I wouldn't take over, what I do isn't my _job_. I make my own schedule.”

Dean kind of doubts that, especially the taking over part, because he knows Lucifer has authority and isn't just a helper up there, but he chooses not to comment. Sam might have just ditched responsibility for some free time with him, so he won't complain.

“Sam, you're back,” Cas says as he walks over too. The archangel looks at Cas with a conflicted expression, and Dean realizes he really needs to know more about what they did in Heaven together. And the details of Castiel's new job description, even if he doesn't like it. “Yep,” Sam answers him, tightly shutting his mouth afterwards. 

Dean has a moment where he has no idea what to do now that they're all here in the same room for the first time in a while. Then he coughs. “Okee, we need to talk about how we're gonna go forward. Right? It's the responsible thing to do, so we can stop our... uh, misunderstandings. So what now?” He rambles off, and Sam shifts uncomfortably, glances at Cas from the corner of his eye. 

“I can... drop by as often as I can. We're very busy right now, but in time I'm sure I can make more time to hang down here, and so will Cas,” Sam says slowly, and the mentioned angel straightens more at it. “But it's your life we should talk about, because me and Cas already have so much stuff to do. Like, are you gonna keep hunting?”

Oh, this is a sitting down conversation already. Dean grimaces. “Yeah? What else am I gonna do.”

Sam shrugs. “Well. You do deserve a real chance at life, Dean. You don't need to keep running after monsters, you could settle down.” He cringes a little and glances outside while Dean stares at him pensively. “Or at least take a vacation. It's the end of June.”

“What do you mean, settle down?” Dean asks, taken aback.

Sam groans and gestures around with his bony hand. “You don't _need_ to, I'm just saying you can slow down and enjoy life. You could work the phones and books like Bobby did, or go all the way and get a new life. A better one than this one.”

Dean blinks, uncomprehending. Could he do that? Sam's suggested it Before, about how they deserve a break once they're done with Amara. He's even brought up the idea of using the bunker as a base or helping other hunters with info and potential cases, so they can stop moving around, but Dean's been doing this for so long he's forgotten he _can_ have a normal life. Or something like it.

“Just... think about it.” Sam orders softly, then looks around the room. “In the meantime, we could... start small, yeah? Let's, I dunno, watch a movie together.” He suggests.

They used to do that sometimes between hunts, or when the motel rooms had the small tvs and they put on something, maybe pirated a movie on Sam's laptop. They started up Game of thrones a good while ago, but they didn't have time to follow the episodes, so they just caught some of them every once in a while for fun and to do something together, rather than the plot itself.

“Sure, we can do that,” Dean answers and looks around the room. There's a tv stationed on the cupboard, but it doesn't look like it has any quality capabilities. The motel rooms don't have sofas, but it's right opposite of the two beds like it usually is, so it's comfortable to watch.

“Cool,” Sam says, a little strained, and walks around to shut off most of the lights while Dean goes over to the television to figure out where the remote is. Cas just looks between them, observing in disinterested curiosity. He meets Dean's eyes and he can see the questions, so he just shrugs. “We watch stuff sometimes, you know, just sit in front of the tv, eat chips and drink beer. It's relaxing.”

Cas huhs and walks over to one of the beds to take his shoes off before he sits down on it, shrugging off his trench coat in the process to set it down at his side, sitting only in his dark bluish suit, impeccable as always. Dean stares at him until the angel blinks and the hunter snorts. “Sorry. It's just weird.” Cas tilts his head to the side.

“Seeing you without shoes and the coat,” Dean stresses. “It's like looking at a peeled lemon, man. It freaks me out.”

Sam snickers somewhere behind him before he swerves around over to the other bed, kneels down and pushes it with a low groan of wood until it slots next to the first bed. They usually do this to share the bowl of snacks easier, but Dean knows Sam won't eat this time.

He fiddles with the remote until the tv comes on in all its grimy glory and Sam audibly frowns. “Would you be freaked out if I fixed that? Just so that it's watchable.”

Dean looks at him blankly for a second before he understands. “Right, uh, sure. Yeah, you can, just put it back to how it was when we're done.”

Sam smiles a relieved smile and then blinks at the television. Doesn't even snap his fingers or anything, but when Dean looks back at it, it looks like the tv they bought for the bunker. “That's neat,” he comments. “Um, awesome.”

Sam doesn't answer, just takes the jacket off and kicks off his shoes to cross his legs on the bed covers like Cas did before. Dean does the same, taking the remote to flip through the channels and find something decent. He scoots back until he's at the headboard, props a pillow up to be comfy.

Dean mumbles random titles while he flips through the channels, until he hits something okay sounding that only started like ten minutes ago and lets it play.

“Who is this man?” Cas immediately asks. Dean waves him off. “We'll know eventually. Just watch.”

Sam slowly settles back into the position Dean is in and observes the screen - tense, but then again Dean isn't so relaxed about it either. Dean tries to follow the movie and the introductions to all the characters, but it's harder than he imagined. Cas seemed like the only one succeeding in investing himself into the plot, staring at the tv with his usual angelic concentration.

Sam sighs. “You want chips?”

Why not. Dean needs to make this normal, he needs to get used to it. “I could go for chips,” Dean says. Sam hands him a ceramic bowl and a bag of pepper flavored potato chips. 

“Huh,” Dean lets out and opens the bag. They've bought these ones before, and SamLucifer probably just made them out of thin air (Dean doesn't really understand the mechanics, but he doesn't need to). “Thanks.” He adds quickly, when he remembers to do that, catching Sam's smile before he pops one into his mouth. It tastes like chips, but Sam's made him coffee before and it tasted like genuine coffee too. It's not like it can taste like Sam.

But this opens _possibilities_. “Hey, can you make pie?”

Sam looks at him and gives him an awkward expression between indignance and delight. “Do I look like a dispense machine you can type an order into?”

Dean purses his lips. “...Can it be blueberry?”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest in offense, and Dean teases on as smugly as he can, and it's a lot. “You can't make pie.”

“I _can_ make it. It's easy.” Sam deadpans and stabs his grey eyes into the woman talking on the screen, her name something beginning with M.

“I don't see you doing it, tho'.” Dean says, acting haughty, making Sam look at him again.

“I won't make you pie,” Sam shakes his head adamantly, turning much more serious. “You'll get fat.”

Dean can't help it, he bursts out laughing. It's just a little hysterical, but mostly just something he really bloody needed. He laughs, shaking with it, letting all the tension drop away. Cas turns back looking mildly worried, and Sam shakes his head when he stops, but he can see a smile stretching his lips. “For real, you eat too much junk food.”

“Hoy there,” Dean says, lifting the bag of chips up. “You're the one who snapped this up, clearly you're the enabler here.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha.” He looks at the hunter disapprovingly, and Dean knows exactly what's coming because Sam's done it a million times. “It's not healthy for you. You're not gonna live to 80 if you keep clogging your arteries with that synthetic, greasy crap. You need to eat a salad sometime.”

“You're not the judge of that,” Dean retorts, almost practiced by this point, “ _I'm_ the older brother, so the owner-pet dynamic only goes in my favor.”

Sam makes an undignified noise and lightly slaps at Dean's leg. “Well _I_ finished high school and know that 14 billion is a bigger number than 37.”

Dean laughs and almost chokes on a potato chip. “Why'd you bring that up.” He says, but he tries to keep the same tone that he did during their banter. Sam shrugs and makes a 'I dunno man' noise. “Big part of our lives now.”

The human grumbles an affirmative. Then he frowns. “Hey how can you be so frickin old but act like that. I mean, shouldn't you, like, stand around like a wise old oak tree or something? Dispense wisdom and float around. Or just be senile.”

Sam glares at him, though it's clearly in good fun (Dean's seen him glare and it's way more piercing). “This isn't an anime. And my mental state doesn't age the way a human's does. I'm not programmed to get mentally old, no angel can. Just look at Cas, he's an eternal baby.”

Dean snorts and Castiel swivels around. The he lowers his eyebrows and squints at Sam. “First of all, you two are not watching the movie. We said we would watch it. And second of all,” he looks at Dean. “Heaven's time has not always run parallel to Earth. Therefore-”

Sam groans and waves his arms around. “Cas, _nooo_.”

Cas lifts up a condescending finger. “Lucifer and the other archangels aren't _actually_ 14 billion years old. They spent their time in Heaven.”

Dean blinks and feels the metaphorical light coming on above his head. “You're saying technically we can shave off a lot of that?”

Sam groans again. “Not a _lot_. I am the second oldest angel. I've existed longer than the universe.”

The younger angel nods, and straightens up when he starts speaking... _professionally_. “True, but after the necessary work to set the universe on its path to matter, you and Michael retreated to the celestial plane. And time did not run parallel to the earthly one almost until this solar system started forming, which is when I was created.”

“Uh,” injects Dean intelligently.

“Time was slowing down again towards that point already,” says Sam. “It was a gradual change, and you weren't there so you can't make the math.”

Cas leans a bit towards Sam, and his eyes narrow until Dean doubts he can actually see anything. “As if I never visited the archives you managed during my education? You never would have stood for missing information.”

Is this angelic banter? It's probably angelic banter.

Sam narrows his eyes back, so they're both squinting at each other over the bed. “And?”

“So we can 'shave off' about six billion of those years, and you're only twice as old as me.” Castiel finishes smugly. It's genuinely one of the few times Dean's seen him so freaking pleased with himself, and it's hilarious. “Hmmhph,” is Sam's only retort to that before he raises a finger. “But I'm still twice as old and way bigger.”

Castiel lets out a small hah that Dean's learned is his laugh and grins at the angel. It's probably one of the top ten weirdest conversations he's ever been privy to. And then his brain fully computes it and the movie playing quietly in the background is completely forgotten. “Hold up.” He yells, “You and Michael jumpstarted the Universe?”

Sam-Lucifer blinks and frowns. “Um, on Dad's instructions, with his help. Michael runs so hot partially because he triggered the big bang, and the universe was fucking hot back then,” he explains, “And I'm cold, so I cooled it down afterwards. Raphi helped form physical matter, and Gabe worked on the movement of it once galaxies started forming. We worked together, since stars were kinda my thing.”

Dean just takes a while to _process that_ , before he can form a reply. “Was, uh, was Amara there? When was the fight? Before or after the, um, big bang that you totally had a hand in?”

Sam glances at the ceiling thoughtfully. “She was. Dad was trying to show her how he could make creation beautiful. There were attempts before that, since the big bang isn't the first thing he ever made, but it's the first Big project. A canvas for a lot of later ones,” he explains. “Amara was only banished a few million years after, because she kept messing with it out of spite. She was still there to witness the First Beasts, like the leviathan, but she never saw the angels get made.”

Dean hums to fill the silence while he pieces together the timeline in his head. “Right... and you said the angels were made in a different way, and they're hooked up to heaven, so that was made before them.” Sam nods, and Dean continues working through that, recalling what Lucifer's already told him and adding new info. “Because Chuck made you sort of out of himself, and you're über powerful, but you still count as the same species because you're both made of grace?”

“Pretty much.” Lucifer confirms.

Damn. Dean is gaining a new perspective on some seriously divine, primordial history. These beings had a celestial feud going on that's lasted for literally forty millennia, since what, upper paleolithic period? He's needed to compartmentalise God as the Creator and Chuck the deadbeat dad to work with him and not have a meltdown about his own pre-planed existence, but it's really coming into view now.

Not to mention Lucifer and Cas seem so casual about it. The way they talk and behave contradicts so strongly to the topics they discuss, to their age, so incredibly _human_. He wonders if God designed the archangels like that, or he made the humans like he made his angels. Maybe they're not acting human, maybe humans are the ones acting like a downgraded version of angels, but with added free will that lets them murder and lie to each other.

They act like immature humans a lot, now that Dean's started mulling it over. As far as he's seen, angels don't learn from their mistakes as quickly as they should, they're petty and maintain a holier than thou attitude. He thinks about what Lucifer so casually said about their minds never aging, like it's something naturally superior - but Dean suddenly thinks that's not true. It means their experience and age don't give them the understanding and wisdom they rightfully should, like they were never children but they never grew up either; they're stuck, bound by their limited capacity for change. It seems like a heavy price for eternal existence, and the thought suddenly makes Dean a little sad.

“We should just watch tv while I sort this out.” Dean says, monotone.

“Yeah man, take your time,” Sam says, and changes position so he's laying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows on the end of the bed. He crosses his too long legs by the pillow, and Dean leans back against the headboard to breathe and get back into the headspace he was in when they were bantering.

He doesn't really want a heavy conversation to end this night, but the more he looks at Sam sprawled next to him the more questions buzz around his head, even ones he didn't ask before but have been there for weeks now. Not even history ones, or about Michael and Raphael and Gabriel, even though he has them and he's positive they'll be answered in time. 

Sam takes up less space now, even though he's just as tall, and his jacket made his shoulders seem a little wider, but he's only wearing his tight-fitting jeans and a shirt now. Dean wondered why Sam didn't wear his old, looser pants, had briefly thought that showing off their definition by wearing skinny jeans was just the archangel's vanity, but he realized pretty quickly that that would accentuate the fact that he's shaped like a well-toned pencil, so Sam decided on the one getup that would bring out the better qualities his... _vessel_ has.

“Hey, why do you always wear the same thing?” Dean asks, reaches out to tug at Sam's shirt, then chickens out at the last second and just lightly brushes it.

Sam frowns slightly, looks down at his clothes. Cas turns around as well. “It's considered inappropriate.” He says gravelly. “To dress your vessel up in different clothing or experiment when it comes to appearance. It's disrespectful to the human whose body you're borrowing.”

“That... makes a lot of sense.” Dean comments slowly. “But you two have empty ones. They're yours.”

Cas reaches back with his hand to stroke the trench coat. “I keep mine to honor Jimmy's memory. I've also grown fond of it.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, true.” He looks at Sam. “You don't have a reason, though. Like, you could switch it up every once in a while.”

“Maybe, but it'd still be seen as a kind of exhibitionism by our siblings,” Sam cringes. “Or objectifying the vessel more than we already do.”

“Oh.” Dean doesn't push the issue anymore. If Sam wants to wear different stuff around the bunker, he will, but Dean won't comment if he wants to look the same.

“Do you-” He cuts himself off and shuts up. It's a bad question. Sam turns around at an awkward angle. “What?” Dean fumbles for a while, and can see Cas sigh at their inability to just watch a stupid movie.

“Do you like it?” Dean blurts. “Your body, I mean. We've never talked about it.”

Sam frowns, and Cas turns his head around with a weird, blank expression. “I... do, now. I mean, I don't mind it, you know? It suits me, and it helps me kinda... distinguish between who I was to who I am, since I look different.”

Huh. To be honest, in the privacy of Dean's mind, that helps him too. It would have been disturbing had SamLucifer kept his old body, but acted the same way. The same arguments, Luciferish expressions and his meltdowns on _Sammy's_ face would have driven Dean mad. 

And he's considered this fact before, hasn't said it out loud, but Sam the archangel doesn't fit into the 'handsome' criteria anymore. The way he looks is outside the conforming body expectations, since Sam could easily pass as a girl if he wasn't so tall - something that would betray his gender if somebody got confused. He's pale, yeah, but his upturned eyes make him seem sort of elven, as if his race isn't set in stone like Dean's; neither is his age. As far as standards for guys go, Sam has very little sex appeal (perhaps an angelic trait), but he isn't ugly. He's... beautiful, in an otherworldly way, and Dean wonders whether or not Lucifer's true form is anything like his true vessel. Not that Dean has _any_ idea at all what SamLucifer's true form looks like, if he can leave his vessel at all.

Sam's eyebrows knit together when Dean keeps staring at him, and fully flips himself around until he's sitting up with his back towards the tv, brushes his hair out of his face when it gets into his eyes. “...What?”

Dean shrugs with one shoulder. “It's just, it occured to me we never talked about so much of this before now. Everything else about-” he points at Sam, “this. It was so awkward.”

“I guess.”

“Like...” Dean licks his lips, thinking that maybe he should just watch the movie before he makes all the shit go sideways. Ah, screw it. “What did it feel like?”

Sam frowns. “What did what feel like.”

“When you...” Dean tries to gesture with his hands. “Became you? When Chuck, uh.”

Sam squirms in place and looks at the corner table where Dean dropped his keys. Then he stares at them so he doesn't meet Dean's eyes while the latter keeps mapping out his profile. “Um. Well, I don't remember it that clearly. Just the very beginning, when my memories were still... separate, and then I-we clashed and it felt like my mind exploded. I passed out. I don't know when I... when my vessel changed.”

Cas looks uncomfortable and like he's about to interrupt their little interrogation, but Dean glances at him to stop it. Sam looks back at Dean after a moment and shifts in place, crosses his arms over his chest, cringing. “...yeahhh, It's still awkward. You're staring at me, stop it.”

Dean looks at the beige bed covers and mumbles, “Sorry.”

“No problem,” Sam murmurs back before he flops back to his previous position and nudges the abandoned bag of chips towards Dean with a foot. Dean grins and picks it up to munch while they watch, even though he's completely lost the plot by now.

The conversation recedes completely, and after about fifteen minutes the atmosphere gets comfortable, filled with movie sounds and the crunching of Dean's salty snack. It's weirdly domestic, for them to be sitting on one improvised king sized bed, Dean the closest to the middle so that he can see past Cas. An archangel/ex-devil, an angel and a human watching some bad action movie sounds like the start of a bad joke, and Dean smiles to himself.

  
The movie is almost at its end when Cas shifts a little and quietly speaks. “Jehoel is asking when you'll be coming back.”

Sam turns his head around. “Oh. That was fast.” He hums and pulls himself into a sitting position to look at Dean. “You're gonna turn in around eleven, right? Maybe midnight?”

Dean shrugs, wonders again who the angel Cas mentioned is. “Yeah. But you don't have to wait until I fall asleep.”

Sam blinks, the motion looking intentional rather than an automatic human function. “You sure?”

“Uh, absolutely. I don't need to be creeped out.” Dean states. “By the way, I'll be working a hunt tomorrow. It should be pretty quick, since we have the ghost's identity and me and Cas searched the public records for the grave location.”

“Cool. Holler if you need any help.”

Dean exhales. “Okay. If you gotta go now, you can. Just stop by when you can, maybe when it's day time, yeah?”

He can see Sam's white teeth flash in the dark. “Obviously. Get enough sleep, Dean, or you won't live to 80.”

Dean just lightly kicks his leg towards him while he grins. Sam suddenly turns serious, careful in the way he's become now when he talks about heaven stuff. “Oh, right. You'll eventually have to see Gabriel, I just wanted to say that,” Sam says quickly, and Dean tries to imagine how _that_ meeting would go. “If I don't bring him around he'll pop in by himself for sure, you know how he is, and he's gonna have to know about this part of my life so... I can introduce you to some of my closer friends? I'd like you to meet Nadiel sometime.” Sam finishes, and Dean thinks for a second.

“Nadiel is a doctor, right?” He asks eventually.

Sam nods. “Yeah, she's actually the leader of the healer division. But she's super nice. You'd like her for sure.”

Dean slowly nods. “Okay. Sometime, we can do that, just... warn me first. Don't just drop in with a random angel.”

The archangel gives him an offended stare. “Of _course_ , dumbass. I definitely wouldn't want her to see you in that ugly grey robe,” he shudders. “Dear Dad, she'd think you're a barbarian...”

Dean grabs the pillow by his side and smacks Sam in the face with it while he snickers. That robe is dignified, dammit, and it will not be insulted when it's not even here to defend itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached like 26k words. This fic is longer than the first two Harry Potter books and I'm not even halfway done. How long did it take you guys to read this thing?
> 
> Do you like it? Yah or nah, feedback is appreciated, put on a pedestal and worshiped


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